


Typical, Average, Ordinary Boy

by alexenglish



Series: Burn This Way [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Blood Magic, Body Dysphoria, Canon Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Evil Jennifer, F/M, Full Shift Werewolves, Gender Identity, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical manipulation, Pack Dynamics, Slow Build, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 74,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His crush on Derek is painfully obvious to everyone, his magic keeps going haywire, the English teacher is definitely evil, and everyone keeps wanting to talk to him about his vagina. Stiles can deal with this, right?</p><p> *Non-con warning for Jennifer and Derek's relationship, and magical manipulation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this Stiles is transmasculine, so I talk about his vagina sometimes. If this a topic you're not informed about, consider checking out [FTM Guide](http://www.ftmguide.org/). 
> 
> HUGE, freakin' HUGE thanks to [RaLeigh](http://tardisrightsactivist.tumblr.com/) for being my cheerleader and beta and really excited with me about this. With me 'til the end of the line. 
> 
> Non-con warning in reference to Derek and Jennifer's relationship, she uses her magic to coerce him into it. The scenes between them are not explicit and not descriptive.

Stiles digs the toe of his sneaker into the ground, hands in his pockets, wistfully thinking about playing a game on his phone. There’s no bars where he’s at in the woods, so it’s useless for everything but GPS triangulation if he happens to get lost or kidnapped. Not that he’s expecting any of those things, but better safe than sorry, especially in Beacon Hills: Supernatural Criminal Capital of the World. Maybe he’ll dig out his GameBoy for next time, bring along a little Mario. That would make the wolves jealous. 

He finds a broad tree to slump against, pulling a toothpick out of the front pocket, twirling it in his hands before setting it between his teeth. He’s deep enough in the woods that the light from the full moon has to fight to touch the ground, trees contending for space to spread their branches. He sighs as he tilts his head against the bark, listening intently, trying to hear Scott’s sneakers on the leaves or Erica’s boots coming at him. He doesn’t hear anything except for chirping and creaking. 

It’s boring as hell waiting for the wolves to muddle past the masking spell he put over his scent so that they can find him. One of Derek’s more creative training sessions, but still tedious for the resident bait. They get to brush up on their tracking skills and Stiles gets to waste away in the woods, trying not to be jumpy or paranoid about the noises that surround him. 

Tonight is no exception. Every rustle of branches or skitter of nocturnal critter makes him startle, anxious for no reason. He drums out a Blink-182 song on his thigh to keep him distracted, so concentrated that he nearly misses the crunch of leaves to his left. He opens his eyes to Derek’s glowing, red. His breath catches at their closeness.

“You’re not supposed to find me first every time,” Stiles complains quietly, trying not to draw attention to them. The wolves like to cheat and just follow Derek’s scent to Stiles. Stiles thrusts the haphazardly stacked wad of bills into Derek’s hand. “The point of scent training is so someone besides the alpha gets the money, it’s an incentive… Ha in- _scent_ -ive.” He chuckles to himself weakly, while Derek stares at him.

“I got tired of waiting,” he shrugs, sticking the money into the pocket of his jeans. The moonlight casts dark shadows on his face, accentuating his pale eyes and sharp cheekbones. Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest. “The masking spell only dampens your scent, if they would just focus on the testosterone they would be able to find you. They’re trying to track your natural scent.” 

Derek says it with shrug, such nonchalance, while the bottom of Stiles’ stomach drops out.

“Come again?” he asks, slowly, because he’s not sure he heard right. He’s pretty sure Derek just told him that he can _smell his T._ Which, what? “W-what do you mean? Testosterone, like hormones? Like all my teenage stuff right? ...Puberty?” 

Stiles’ voice is slightly shaking, his words too fast. He’s reaching, they both know what Derek means. Stiles knows that Derek _knows_ and it’s so _not okay_. He shoves his hands in his pockets, heart speeding for reasons that have nothing to do with Derek’s pretty facial features. Derek scowls like Stiles is personally offending him, but his eyebrows look slightly embarrassed. 

“The masking spell only does so much, Stiles. It’s not a big deal.” He’s not even _pretending_ to play along, the asshole. Stiles can feel his pulse pounding in his chest, he’s pretty sure his heart is attempting to make an escape. 

“N-not a big deal? It’s a huge deal! Actually the biggest deal, if you were to rate this deal from 1-10, it would be a 12 _at least_ ,” Stiles says. He’s trying to fight the adrenaline rush, but his hands and feet are tingling and that’s usually a big indicator that he’s going to have an incapacitating panic attack really soon. 

Derek’s frowning at him, confused. He takes an abortive step towards Stiles, like maybe he’s going to comfort him or whatever it is that Derek Hale does when he feels sorry for someone. Stiles takes a step back so Derek stops in his tracks and shoves his hands in his pockets as well, scowling. They just stare at each other, Awkward Conversation Chicken. Who will breach the subject first? Derek looks like he’s about to open his mouth, ask a question or just talk about it. Stiles is saved by the echoing movements of bodies through foliage, the crunch of leaves and branches.

“Stiles!” Scott comes crashing through the undergrowth like a rampaging bull. Bless his little heart. “I couldn’t smell you and then there was just so much anxiety, I thought something…” he trails off, watches Stiles hunch his shoulders almost up to his ears. 

Damn right, there’s anxiety. He gulps, trying to breathe over the tightness in his chest, the rushing of blood in his ears.

“Scott, we should go,” he says, trying to fold himself up smaller, stop himself from shaking. There are more noises, the rush of running feet and the stomp of shoes as the rest of the wolves tumble through the trees. They stop abruptly, eyeing the three of them.

“ _Scott_ , like yesterday,” he says, firmly, trying to keep his voice under control.

Scott seems to get it, nodding quickly. The glare he levels at Derek is pretty impressive as he grabs Stiles around the wrist, pulling him away from the collective, confused look of the others. Erica steps forward with a frown, like she wants to ask, but Derek just shakes his head -- _thank god_ \-- and that stops her. 

They half run to the Jeep. Having to actively avoid rocks and branches that could make him trip and die distracts Stiles from the tight clench of his chest. He doesn’t think he can drive like this, with a maybe-sort-of panic attack, so he throws Scott his keys and gets into the passenger seat.

Scott keeps making a confused face, but doesn’t ask until after they’ve stumbled into Stiles’ room and Stiles has magically tightened the air around them into a soundproof barrier. If anyone followed them back, they won’t be able to hear Stiles _freaking the fuck out_. Which is good, all things considered. 

“What what what?” Scott asks, hands flying to Stiles’ shoulders, eyes roaming like Stiles might be hurt. It’s sweet, but Stiles is wearing all his clothes so Scott can’t actually check for extensive damage. He’d be able to smell the blood anyway. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Stiles responds, sitting on his bed and running his hands repeatedly through his hair, making it stick up. Scott looks like he wants to ask, but he knows Stiles so he waits him out, waits until the thundering in Stiles’ veins has stopped and he’s calm enough to breathe easily.

“Derek _knows_ ,” Stiles finally says, his foot practically vibrating through the carpet with how fast he’s bouncing it. The tightness in his chest wrenches up another notch, lodging in his throat. “He said, fuck, he said _artificial_ _testosterone has a smell_.” Stiles thrusts his hands through his hair again, pulling a little -- when he looks up, Scott’s eyes are big, wide, _concerned_.

“Dude!” he says, his voice cracking, and Stiles is glad he isn’t the only one freaking out. “Wait, why can’t I smell the difference?”

“I don’t know, maybe you have underdeveloped olfactory senses. Derek is a fucking bloodhound compared to you guys.” Stiles launches himself back onto the bed, bouncing a little as he shoves his fists in his eyes, trying to get rid of the tightness there. Scott quiets down, and Stiles pictures him perfectly -- eyes closed, head cocked. _Communing with his wolf_ to try and smell him.

“I dunno. You smell like you,” Scott says, with a shrug. “I guess compared to other dudes you smell, sharper? Maybe. I thought it was just _you_. You smell manly.”

“Well _great_ ,” Stiles says, even though he gets a stupid, excited feeling at the ‘manly’ part. “I’m glad your super sniffer can pick it out. What about the others? What if the _whole pack_ can smell it and they’re just not _saying_ anything. Like, oh god, there goes Stiles, reeking of man-juice, _typical_!” Stiles’ chest is tightening again, his pulse racing. 

Not that he cares what they think -- okay, that’s a lie. He totally cares what they think. Probably _too much_. There’s a very vivid nightmare wherein everyone finds out his secret and demands explanations and he has to justify himself over and over and over again. Fuck.

Scott bounces over to the bed and grabs his shoulder to ground him.

“Stop, Stiles! You’re working yourself up. I can only smell it because I know to look, er, _sniff_ for it. No one else does, Derek’s the only one who can smell that good. He wouldn’t tell them,” Scott looks confident in that statement for about two seconds. “He wouldn’t tell them, right?” Scott looks a little bit panicked on Stiles’ behalf.

“Well,” Stiles says, willing himself not to vomit or pass out. 

“What?”

“He’s the only who can smell that _well_.” 

Scott rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, like Stiles is insufferable. Stiles knows better though, he’s totally got Scott’s number. Scott loves Stiles. 

“He’s here,” Scott says, straightening and motioning with his head towards the window. Stiles jerks, limbs crashing together. That was fast, he really wasn’t expecting Derek to follow them home. 

“Oh _fuck_ , why is he here? He still has training to do, what is he _doing_? Should I talk to him?” Stiles asks, sitting up and making an abortive movement towards the window. Scott shrugs, then looks uncertain. 

“Should I leave?” he asks, shifting his weight towards the door. Stiles feels hot. Scott is the only thing keeping him from having a nervous breakdown right about now. 

“No, you should stay, you should absolutely stay,” Stiles says, grabbing at Scott’s arm. His head feels floaty and disconnected. “I need a buffer, I can’t--”

“I should go, you guys should talk about this,” Scott says, voice hard and final, face like ‘it’s for your own good, Stiles’. Which, Stiles definitely _doesn’t_ agree with. It’s not for his own good. There’s nothing about a discussion like this with _Derek_ that’s for his own good. 

Scott leaves. Whatever, Stiles doesn’t need his traitorous ass, anyway. Stiles takes his time making his way over to unlock his window, nerves shot to hell. There’s a small tremor in his hands that he sincerely hopes Derek doesn’t call him out on. He leans out, hands clenching the sill like an anchor. Derek’s sitting on the roof with his knees up, looking grumpy as hell.

“I hate when you do that,” he gripes, probably trying to sound threatening and angry, but just sounds petulant instead. Stiles chokes on a laugh.

“Uhm, privacy, dude, it’s a thing,” he pulls his head back in and beckons to Derek to follow. Derek spills gracefully into the room, eyes casting about the corners for a minute, a quick canvas. Stiles can feel the moment he passes through the magic barrier Stiles put up, tingling through his energy. It’s not reassuring.

Stiles hunches and crosses his arms over his chest defensively. His chest is bound and hidden, but it’s a reflexive move, hide the vulnerable bits. This whole thing is making him edgy, anxious, _terrified_. 

“Scott left?” Derek asks, after the silence has gone on for too long. Stiles nods. “He knows?”

“Yeah _duh_ ,” Stiles says, throwing himself down onto his computer chair roughly. The sick, nauseous feeling is back in his stomach and his throat is dry when he swallows. He feels like one touch could send him flying apart. He can’t help the way he searches Derek’s face for understanding. Maybe he gets the gravity of the situation, maybe he’s here to tell Stiles he’ll be supportive, or whatever. _Whatever_. Derek is watching Stiles cautiously. Stiles absolutely hates that look, the look that means Derek thinks Stiles is too fragile. 

“Why did you panic?” Derek asks, voice low, soothing like he doesn’t want to spook Stiles. Stiles laughs at that, it’s harsh and loud and he chokes it off before it becomes hysterical.

“You should leave,” Stiles says, glaring. “I seriously can’t do this right now.” Derek gives Stiles a pained look, takes a small step towards Stiles like he’s going to -- Stiles has no idea, so when Derek’s hand comes around and grasps his arm lightly, he can’t help the way he jumps and then leans into it, insides feeling quelled for a moment.

Sure, they’ve edged passed mortal enemies and made their way into friendly territory, but this is still Derek, and they still don’t talk about things, not important things. So, the way that Derek is waiting patiently, watching him, wanting him to speak. It leaves Stiles’ throat dry for reasons other than anxiety. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you. You can talk to me, if you need to. About it, or whatever, you know.” The sincerity on Derek’s face contrasts strongly with his severe eyebrows. Stiles fights a laugh. This was _not_ on the brochure.

“Oh yes, that’s great thank you, because I don’t already have enough people to talk to,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, deliberately breaking the fragility of the moment that they were having. “My _therapist_ for example. No, you’re a great alternative to a trained professional.”

“ _Stiles_ , will you just stop?” Derek asks, giving Stiles a helpless look. Stiles grunts and looks away. Derek should have expected Stiles to be sarcastic in light of things, that’s Stiles’ default for disaster: pure sardonic wit. Not that he’s feeling particularly sarcastic, it’s more of a vulnerability that he wants to completely ignore.

“Damnit Derek, you can’t just come in my room and ask me to lay the Big Trans Talk on you and just _expect me to do it_ ,” Stiles says. 

“‘Big Trans Talk’?” Derek asks, smiling slightly. Stiles turns his head so he doesn’t smile too, it’s no one’s fault that Derek’s stupid, amused half-smiles are infectious, but mutual smiling is not the route they’re going with. Stiles is angry, _very_ angry about his secret being less of a secret. 

“Look, you can’t just waltz in here and pet my head and tell me everything is going to be okay. I mean, you _can_ \-- you sort of already did, but less with the petting… Not the point. The _point_ is that I’ve spent years weighing the pros and cons and I’m cool with keeping this under wraps.” Stiles is desperately trying to convey how important it is that Derek doesn’t try to pursue this further with just how hard he’s staring. 

“When I started hormone therapy, I decided that I just wanted to be a normal dude. Not a trans man, not that kid who used to be a girl, just a normal guy. I’ve only ever told a few people who weren’t family,” Stiles says, trying a different approach. Derek is just staring at him stubbornly, which means they will be standing here for a very long time if Stiles doesn’t give him something.

When he was a kid he hadn’t really thought about the differences between boys and girls; he didn’t have any siblings to compare to and a limited amount of friends. Melissa is the one who explained the differences to him, who helped him understand. His therapist always said it was a deliberate ignorance on his part, seeing the world without gender because he didn’t want to confront the truth about his body. It could have been true, but he doesn’t really remember. It opened up his world to the ugly truth, and even though it was easy to hide his femininity with a hair cut and clothing as a kid, it started to change as he inevitably went through puberty. 

“This is Stiles Stilinski in the wrong packaging,” he says. “Telling people won’t _fix_ that. Why should other people have to accept a version of me that I don’t even accept?” Derek stays quiet, which is good because that was definitely a rhetorical question. “People see what I want them to see, and I like it like that.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, still. He just stands there and stares, flexing his hands every so often like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Stiles hasn’t ever seen Derek so _unsure_ before. Even when he’s making stupid calls and bad decisions, Derek is full of bravado. Stiles’ world has slowly been turning on its head all night.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Derek says again, frustration evident in his tone. He looks away, _finally_. “I just figured it’s something that you wouldn’t want to just blow off, sorry I was wrong.” 

“Well, this is very much so something I want to blow off, so...” Stiles shrugs, a tiny bounce of his shoulders, just for show. Nonchalance, right, totally not going to freak out about it anymore tonight. Totally. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything else, just gestures to the window in an invitation to leave. Derek gives him another one of those long, soul-searching looks and nods once before doing exactly that, much to Stiles’ surprise. He was expecting more of a fight than that.

Unfortunately, the panicked feeling is back after a couple of minutes of just staring at his open window, the empty roof past it, the tops of neighborhood trees. Derek was _distracting_ him, as much as he hates to admit and now it feels like the dark and silence of his room is pressing on him from all sides. 

There’s a chime from his phone, loud in the silence. He fumbles with it for a second, squinting against the brightness of the screen. 

From: Wolfman

[00:12] _Sorry again, I’m serious about if you need to talk. Have a good night, Stiles._

Stiles doesn’t bother answering, but he stares at it for a long time. Derek’s willingness to discuss this with Stiles, his offer to talk, that’s something new and different for them. Derek _knows_ and doesn’t even seem to care. Stiles doesn’t even know what to _do_ with that. His chest is getting all tingly just _thinking_ about it --

Stiles shoves the feeling away and throws himself onto the bed, trying to to parse through his reactions. Besides being soul-crushingly anxious about the whole thing, he’s not devastated beyond belief.

Honestly, on the Stiles Stilinski Vagina Bullshit O’Meter, this rates around the middle. It’s not bad enough to surpass getting boobs or his period, he didn’t even have a full-blown panic attack during this conversation. Nothing can ever beat the chart topping _being born with a vagina_. It’s not the best thing that could happen. It wasn’t a conversation bred from necessity, but it’s not like he volunteered the information, Derek just _knew_. Stiles isn’t in the habit of lying if it doesn’t gain him the advantage. Besides, they’ve had talks about lying to Derek when Derek knows he’s lying.

Stiles takes the pillow and screams into it, trying to release some of the tension from his chest. 

It’s okay, it will all be okay, he reassures himself, methodically stripping off his clothes. He unhooks his binder and stretches out his ribcage, taking deep breathes as he presses into the binder impressions left on his skin. It’ll be okay. Derek won’t tell anyone, _Stiles_ won’t tell anyone _else_. It’ll be _fine_.

 

 

When Stiles has a rough day, he takes off his clothes and looks at himself in the mirror and tries to find at least five things that he likes about himself. Three of which need to be physical, and two are allowed to be aspects of his personality. Really, his entire personality is fan-fucking-tastic, more than two would be too easy.

When he looks in the mirror the next morning, he can’t find three things. All he can focus on is how his hips are too wide, too curved to be male. How his ribcage isn’t as square and masculine as it could be. His boobs mock him in the mirror, pronounced in their roundness, nipples a spread of feminine pink. Worst of all, his vagina, though hidden in a thatch of dark hair, the sweep of skin to lips is a heavy reminder that there’s nothing significant between his legs. Even his clit, which he gets some amusement from on good days, is making him vaguely sick; it’s thick and grown out from the T, but it’s a sorry excuse for a penis. 

He jerks his eyes away from his crotch, looks at the dark bruises under his eyes and laughs at himself. Well, maybe another day. Everything today screams _female_ in a way that hurts. He skips a shower because he doesn’t want to see himself naked for any longer, laying shirts on like armor until there’s no impression of a binder or femininity at all, until he can breathe just a little easier.

There’s coffee in the pot when Stiles stumbles down stairs, bubbling happily like it knows it’s what Stiles needs. It is _exactly_ what Stiles needs, but it also means that his dad wants to Talk. That he’s waiting for Stiles to turn the corner so he can Talk with him. No big, right? Hopefully.

“Yo, daddio,” Stiles says, entering the kitchen. His dad is in full Sheriff regalia, newspaper clenched in his hands. 

“One of those days?” he asks, eyeing Stiles’ layered shirts like they hold the secrets to the universe. Stiles shrugs, unhurried, but it’s pointless. There are numerous facts about Stiles that are dead giveaways to his mood. Being fully dressed before he even has to think about leaving for school is one of them. Usually the first time he comes down stairs he wanders around in his boxers and binder until it’s ten minutes before he has to leave. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Apparently, the T has a discernible scent for werewolves. Werewolf. Derek. He knows about the,” Stiles gestures to his body morosely. Stiles’ dad makes a sympathetic face. Stiles flaps his hand so his dad knows he doesn’t have to worry about it, or even mention it. This is not a ‘talk about the lady parts’ day, this is a ‘studiously ignore the lady parts’ day. 

“This will distract you,” his dad says, which is ominous in itself. He slides the paper towards Stiles and taps on the page that it’s open to. “One of the packs up north was found wiped out.” 

Stiles snatches up the paper, flipping it out. There’s an article about the pack: 10 dead, 3 missing, no motive besides _werewolves_. They took up residence outside of a sleepy little town in northern California that’s heavily bordered by woods, the population was all werewolf friendly due to the established pack. 

“That’s not okay,” Stiles mutters, putting down the paper. It feels like a threat, sitting there on the table, reporting death so innocently. 

“The thing is, the alpha was found dead, but there hasn’t been any report of pack activity in the area. Whoever killed them all either has a large pack and an abundance of territory or hasn’t started establishing a pack yet.”

“Hunters?” Stiles asks, making his coffee. There’s something wrong with the big picture, but Stiles can’t tell what it is yet. An alpha with a pack large enough to take out another pack would have at least claimed the territory even if they didn’t plan to keep it. If one of the missing members took the power or inherited it when the alpha died, they will be looking for a pack as soon as possible. 

“Doesn’t seem like it. We’ve been in touch with hunters around that town, no one had plans for that area. Plus, most have been reporting that the pack was friendly to outsiders despite the rumor of in-pack dissonance.”

“Well, we all know a hunter or two that went against the code, they really love pulling that kind of thing when we’re least expecting it,” Stiles says, feeling the familiar clench in his gut in reaction to thinking about Gerard and by extension, Kate. Stiles’ dad is nodding along, but Stiles can tell he’s distracted. 

“Just be careful out there, son,” he says, with a twist of his lips.

“Aw shucks, thanks for caring, old man. I think we’ve got it though, I mean we handled it last time, didn’t we?”

“Just barely,” his dad reminds him, looking up at him sternly. Stiles tips his shoulders in another shrug. Sure, the death count was high, especially with that stunt in the police station, but that was definitely Matt’s fault, not the pack’s. They don’t have control over the location of the big showdown. Or, _one_ of the big showdowns.

“We got it, do not fret.”

“I just wish you would let me talk to Satomi--”

“Oh, hey, what time is it? Am I late? I’m totally late. Bye, dad, love you.” Stiles kisses his dad’s cheek with a flourish, twirling around. There’s probably coffee slopping over the edge of his cup, but he bounds up the stairs quickly anyway. It’s carpet, it will dry.

Not that he doesn’t like Satomi and her pack, they’re awesome. At least, he’s heard that they are from Malia and she would know it’s _her pack_. He’s even heard they have a couple of kitsunes, which, _awesome_. There’s just not a huge chance that Derek would appreciate help from an outside source _just yet_. Apparently, establishing a self sufficient pack is a point of pride for an alpha. Stiles doesn’t think Derek’s ego could take the blow.

The cruiser is out of the driveway when Stiles ventures down again. It’s later than he usually leaves for school, but he really, _really_ doesn’t mind. The plan was to be late today _anyway_ , so he didn’t have to field questions from the pack before first period.

There’s a heavy pit of noxious anxiety in his stomach because of last night, because of this morning. He hardly has the energy to go through the day pretending he’s okay. The thing is, he doesn’t _want_ to see the pack. Which is actually rare, because even on the worst days, they’re the worst days _together_. But, this time it’s just him and his issues. All alone.

Stiles scowls down at his desk, trying to decide whether or not to bail on school. He doesn’t want to questioning looks, the inquisition. It’ll just be easier if he takes today to breathe, brace himself for whatever the packs decides to confront him about. _If_ they decide to confront him about anything. They could just decide that they really don’t care to know why he bailed. The pack is nosier than that, though. _Erica_ is nosier than that.

[6:45] _Not making it to school today. I have a severe case of necessary avoidance._

From: Browolf

[6:52] _Aw, dude, I’m here for you. Give me twenty, I’ll be over soon. Make me cooooofffeeee_. 

 

 

From: Big Red

[7:40] _There better be a good reason that you’re not in Math right now. It’s a partner worksheet day and my partner isn’t here_.

From: Big Red

[8:11] _I’m going to kick my partner’s ass so hard. I got stuck with that damn know-it-all sophomore who thinks that just because she’s in high level Math she can challenge all of my answers._

From: Big Red

[8:12] _Newsflash, sweetie, I’m going to be valedictorian and win a Field’s Metal, ask me again if *I’m sure*_

From: Big Red

[8:20] _I can’t believe you’re not answering me. You’re dead to me, Stilinski_.

From: Catwoman

[8:37] _Why won’t you answer Lydia’s texts? Is this about last night?_

From: Artemis

[8:43] _Have you seen Scott? I didn’t see him between first and second._

From: Scarves

[8:45] _Tell Scott Allison needs to talk to him._

From: Scarves

[8:50] _She watched me send that. I don’t care if you tell him or not. Everyone knows you guys are ditching together._

From: Catwoman

[9:04] _Seriously, text Lydia back. I can’t handle the amount of bitching that’s happening right now_.

Stiles growls and throws his phone across the room. He’s been studiously ignoring the vibrating all morning, but it’s just plain irritating at this point. It’s probably the most any of them besides Lydia have bothered texting him just about _ever_. Even Allison, which, _seriously_. They’re not even on speaking terms right now.

Stiles looks up at Scott, who is staring at his phone while it lights up in his hands with a small frown. 

“Our friends are seriously codependent,” Stiles complains. “Don’t they know the rules of bro day. No phones, no peeps outside of bros.” Scott puts his phone down and it vibrates off the table.

“This is what happens when you ignore them,” Scott says, still frowning, looking fairly concerned. “It’s mostly Lydia, demanding an explanation, so that I blame you for.”

“Dude, don’t even, _Allison_ texted me to see where you’re at. Allison hasn’t texted me since she, y’know, let her decrepit grandfather use my face as a punchbag. Also, _please_ tell me why you’re talking to her.”

Scott’s face goes through a series of conflicting emotions, confusion and frustration mostly, before it blanks out with a wince. 

“It’s _Allison_ ,” he says, like that explains it all. It _does_ , but whatever. Stiles tries not to roll his eyes, he really does. He’s not successful, but at least he tries. 

“Say no more,” Stiles says, holding up a hand. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to have that conversation with Scott yet. When everything with Gerard went down, Scott was caught in his own Allison orbit and Stiles was caught between defending Lydia and trying to hold the pack together while it stretched apart. Stiles is still a little mad that Scott didn’t include him in the master plan, but what can you do? Bros will be bros.

“Wanna swim?” Scott asks, probably to distract them from that line of conversation. Stiles nods enthusiastically, bouncing off the couch and up the stairs to get his trunks. 

“Underwear only!” Scott shouts at his back, making Stiles skid to a stop. Stiles scowls. 

“No way, my brain is not there for that this morning,” he says. He hates his body today, there’s no way he’s going to swim around in just his briefs, mentally comparing his feminine body to his best friend’s muscular, _masculine_ body. No way. 

“That’s why you should do it,” Scott says, enthusiastically, forever the cheerleader. “Come on, what’s your three things?” Stiles scowls deepens, he doesn’t _have_ three things today. He skipped the three things. He is done with the three things. Scott just continues to stare.

“I didn’t think of any.”

Scott just continues to stand there and stare, waiting. Stiles takes a deep breath. 

“Today, I like the way my shoulders are broadening out, the way I can pull off a buzz cut and longer hair without looking like a douche, and my large hands,” Stiles recites, waggling his fingers sarcastically at Scott. Scott positively beams at him. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

There’s a pond on the preserve that’s far enough down the trail that most people don’t know about it, or don’t bother driving out to it. Scott and Stiles use it exclusively. The entire pack thinks that Stiles and Scott have an unnatural hatred for any large body of water. Stiles blames it on the fact that he held Derek up for two hours while Jackson’s scaley, psychopathic ass stalked around the pool’s edge. He doesn’t know what Scott’s excuse is, but it’s good enough that the pack doesn’t bother inviting them out even in the dead of summer, when it’s sweltering. 

“So, what did Derek want last night?” Scott asks, as they make the drive out, Stiles’ Jeep jumping and crawling over the dirt path.

“To extend his unconditional emotional support,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows at Scott. Scott laughs loudly, blinking when Stiles’ expression doesn’t change. He smacks the dash a couple of times in excitement.

“No shit? That’s awesome.”

“Yeah, it’s awesome and a little out of character. He thinks it’s no big deal.”

“ _It’s not_ ,” Scott says, vehemently. “You should just come out--”

“Dude, how many times do we have to have this conversation?” Stiles says, trying not to be _too_ aggressive. They have had this conversation a lot. “How long have I been on T? Three years? I’ve been living as a dude since puberty, I shouldn’t _have_ to tell people I have a vagina.”

“You don’t!” Scott says. “I’m just saying, you should be like ‘fuck yeah I have a vagina’ and own it, instead of being worried about people finding out.” Stiles shrugs, he’s really not ready for that. There’s intimately knowing the details about someone’s life and then there’s letting people know that your psyche is actively at odds with your physicality. 

“Yeah, one day it won’t be a big deal,” Stiles agrees, because there’s no reason not to and he doesn’t care to have this conversation with Scott _again_. “But until then, I’ll use both my hands to cover my delicate flower.” Scott just shrugs and nods and lets the subject drop, thankfully. 

Stiles pulls behind a cluster of rocks to park and they stumble out of his Jeep, stripping down to their briefs. Stiles drags off his shirt and flannel, hands hesitating on his binder. Despite his three-thing-daily-affirmation, Stiles is still hesitant about stripping down. He hates it, hates how he hates it. It’s a vicious cycle. 

He tips his head back and takes a deep breath, looking to Scott for the encouraging smile he _knows_ is on Scott’s face. It has never and will never matter to Scott what Stiles’ body looks like underneath his clothes. Scott at five years old didn’t even blink when Melissa explained the differences between them; Scott at 17 is still just as unaffected even _after_ Stiles got tits. That helps. 

“That pink really does wonders for your skin tone,” Stiles says, gesturing to the pair of dark pink briefs that Scott has on, distracting from that moment he just had with himself while he throws his clothes into the back of the Jeep. Scott laughs at him, shoving him away. 

“Well, thanks. You’re looking super fashionable in those Ninja Turtle duds, where did you get them? You got the matching bra around here somewhere?” Scott asks, poking at Stiles’ chest. Surprisingly, the slightly nauseous feeling he got earlier doesn’t happen.

Stiles sarcastically “ha ha”s at him, swatting his hands away, feeling lighter. Scott is totally his favorite.

“Shut your damn mouth! These babies are only here for a couple more months and then they’re gone,” Stiles says, bouncing on his toes so that his boobs move. They’re small, probably only an A cup. “My therapist got approval from the insurance company for part of the payment and dad said I could pull the rest from my college fund.” Scott turns towards him, mouth gaping, his eyebrows high.

“You’re sacrificing your _future_?” he asks, teasingly. Stiles pushes at him to get him moving. 

“This _is_ my future, jackass!” he says. “They’re evil. Not _only_ do they ruin my gender presentation, but they completely obliterate my self-esteem as well. Damn them!” He shakes his fists towards the sky dramatically while Scott rolls his eyes, laughing. 

It’s a monologue that Stiles has recited many a time, but this time it’s light hearted. Getting top surgery is the light at the end of the tunnel, he’s set to schedule it for winter break. He shoves Scott and runs past him to jump into the pond, tucking his body into a cannonball as he launches himself off the outcrop of rocks.

“ _Weak_!” Scott’s laughing face peers at him from over the edge of the rock. “5 out of 10, Stilinski!” Stiles flips him off, but Scott is too busy backing up to run and jump that he doesn’t notice.

“This was a much better idea than school,” Stiles says from where he’s floating on his back.

“Hell yeah,” Scott breathes. Stiles can hear him splashing around until he’s closer. 

“You okay?” Scott asks, his voice somewhere over Stiles’ right shoulder. Stiles makes a noncommittal noise, he actually has to think about that one.

“I guess,” he says, twisting and standing to look at Scott. “I mean, it’s only the worst nightmare coming true and all, no big.” Scott makes an over exaggerated face at him, Stiles makes one back. “I just wasn’t prepared, I didn’t get to tell Derek myself, it’s fucking with me.” Fucking with how he feels about his body, fucking with his stupid crush. He doesn’t tell Scott that, but Scott can probably read it on his face.

“Yeah, I get that, but I don’t think Derek’s going to be a dick about it, he’s grown a lot as a person,” Scott says, and they both laugh. They putter around in the water aimlessly for awhile. Stiles likes Scott the most because Scott knows when to back off and leave him alone. He also knows when to push when Stiles needs to be pushed, like earlier. Scott’s easy interpretation of all things Stiles is one of the best parts of their epic bromance. 

It’s nice, until Scott’s cursing under his breath and Derek is stepping out of the line of trees. Stiles gives a very unmanly squeak before ducking into the water up to his chin. He balances awkwardly on his toes to keep the water above his boobs. Seriously, _seriously_? Of course, Derek decided to show up, of course. Erica probably texted him after no one could get a response out of either of them.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Stiles mutters, trying to keep himself from fall over. Derek heard him. He stops at the waters edge and crouches down, dragging his hands in the water.

“I heard you ditched, wanted to make sure you were okay,” Derek says, watching Stiles. Stiles is far enough that Derek’s expression isn’t perfectly discernible, but he’s sure Derek can see how badly he’s blushing right now.

It doesn’t make any sense. _Why_ is Derek checking on him? Derek _tolerates_ him, sure, and they’re sort of this thing that’s something like friends with bonus aggressive sexual tension, but Stiles and Scott are hand-in-hand when it comes to antagonizing Derek. It’s equal parts frustrating and hilarious for everyone involved and means that there should be a distinct lack of sympathy on Derek’s part. At least, that’s what Stiles holds to be true, and damn if Derek is going to mess with that.

“It was my idea,” Scott says, interrupting whatever moment Derek is trying to have. Derek looks at Scott then, nods. 

“I just wanted to make sure,” Derek says again, lifting, and wiping his hands on his jean. Stiles swallows deeply, because those _thighs_. Ugh, the attraction is real. Derek’s eyes catch his and he blushes deeper, probably painfully obvious, but he levels Derek with a glare. Just because Derek has nice thighs, doesn’t mean he can bust up on their man time with his _eyes_ doing that thing and think it’s okay.

“Did you sniff us out?” Stiles asks, bouncing his eyebrows teasingly. Derek rolls his eyes, mouth curving.

“I didn’t have to, your run-down Jeep makes enough noise to hear you from the loft,” he says. “Not to mention, your voice.” Stiles’ mouth drops open in mock-offense, scandalized.

“I’ll have you know some people enjoy the sound of my voice!” he says, splashing in playfully in Derek’s direction. 

It’s only supposed to be a little teasing thing. What he doesn’t expect is the tingle of magic down his arms that’s nearly painful. It launches the water far enough to completely drench Derek in all of his clothed glory. It takes a minute to reel it in, stop the outward pulse. In that time, Derek has no problem wading through the water to wrap strong arms around Stiles and fling him clear to the other side of the pond. He comes up with an over exaggerated gasp, flinging water from his hair. 

“Well, that escalated quickly,” Stiles complains, arms shooting up to cover his tits. 

Derek is standing where Stiles had been, clothes clinging to his every curve and muscle obscenely, his face irritatingly smug. Stiles rearranges so one arm his holding both his boobs, makes a finger gun at Derek and cocks his thumbs, sending beads of water zipping at him like bullets. His magic reacts _appropriately_ this time. 

Derek just dodges them easily, starting to come towards Stiles with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Seeing danger, Scott lets out a battle cry and launches himself at Derek, grabbing onto his back like a spidermonkey, and stopping Derek’s water fight war path. 

They engage in a truly aggressive wrestling match, that Stiles chooses to ignore completely in favor of drying off and putting on his binder. Many of his fantasies may involve being manhandled by Derek, but not in a water-fight capacity while his boobs are swinging all over the place.

He grabs both towels and makes his way back to where Scott and Derek are still wrestling. Scott is clinging to Derek’s shoulders while Derek tries to pull him off and throw him. When he manages it, Scott just swims to back him and does it again. There’s aggressive smiles on both their faces, a little too edgy for it all to just be play, but it’s progress.

Stiles hunkers down a safe distance from them and the flying water, and uses a palm of fire to dry himself off completely. Everything is still normal there, no unexpected amount of energy leaving his body. Scott joins him a little while later, panting heavily. When he gets close enough, he shakes his hair out onto Stiles.

“Tired of frolicking?” Stiles smirks, tossing him the towel and running a flaming hand over Scott’s hair to dry it quickly. Derek doesn’t step closer until Stiles puts the flames out, the tingle in his forearm receding. Stiles tosses him a towel as well. “Look, Derek, you made your beta smile.”

He grins at Derek whose eyes skip up from his bound chest with a little guilty look. Stiles rolls his eyes and ignores him, fluffing Scott’s hair with his hand. Scott growls at him playfully, making biting motions at his hand that don’t actually come near him.

“Need a dry?” Stiles asks, he knows Derek will say no, but he offers anyway. He can see it in his head, Derek using his shoulder to balance while Stiles dries his jeans, thighs bracing. Ugh. Derek in-real-life just scowls at him, like he’s offended Stiles even asked, and strips down to grey briefs. That are also wet, and _clinging_ to him. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude, get out of here!” Stiles shields his eyes with his hand because _the things he’s seen_. Scott guffaws loudly as Derek drops his underwear and changes into a dark brown wolf in one graceful movement. He gathers his clothes in his mouth and disappears into the woods.

“Why does he do that?” Stiles asks, pouting. Scott is still laughing as he claps him on the shoulder. “No, seriously, he has to _know_ , why does he do that?”

“You know how wolves are with nudity, Stiles,” Scott says, very seriously. It had taken the bitten wolves a little while to get used to having to strip down in front of everyone, and see each other naked in a platonic way. There were so many awkward boners that _no one_ talks about. “He doesn’t mean to be -- “ he flaps his hand around “-- _Derek-y_.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s _exactly_ what he means to be, Scott, seeing as he’s Derek. He has manners, he just chooses not to use them.” Scott just laughs at him, as always.

“Hey, so weirdness,” Stiles says, almost hesitantly. Scott’s eyebrows go up at him in exclamation. Right, hesitant is weird. “Just, my magic, just now. I didn’t mean to do the tidal wave, but it happened anyway.” 

“That is weirdness,” Scott says, eyebrows drawing down in a sharp frown. They walk back to the Jeep, shoulders jostling for space between them. “Control slip?” 

“Nah, that’s never happened,” Stiles says with a shrug. He’s been a magic user his _entire_ life, literally born with it -- sparking itty-bitty, baby flames before he could even hold his own bottle -- so loss of control, not something he’s used to. He’s not some novice or self-taught user, it’s written in his DNA.

Scott’s wide shoulders shrug, then his mouth pulls into a dopey grin. 

“Maybe you’re getting more powerful,” he says, making claws and pawing them at Stiles. “Dread user of fire, deadly with intent.” Stiles shoves him, because he’s being a shit. 

“Remind me not to take you anywhere.”

“You _don’t_ take me anywhere,” Scott says, shoving back. “You’re the _worst_ boyfriend.” The pout on his face is ridiculous, but it makes Stiles laugh. 

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, uh, you wanna come to mine?” Stiles asks. He should flex his magic and he hates doing it in public. Fire starters have a bad enough reputation that someone would probably call the police if they saw a giant column of fire coming out of the forest.

Scott agrees easily. The point of a ditch day is to ditch together, anyway. At least Scott doesn’t try and talk about Allison on the way back, but he’s thinking about it. The downturn of his mouth is all Stiles needs to see to know that’s what’s on his mind. He bites his lip against saying anything more. Scott needs to figure out the Allison thing _mostly_ on his own. 

When they get to the house, Stiles runs through every exercise Deaton’s ever taught him for his magic while Scott watches from the bed, eating his last bag of Hot Cheetos. 

It’s like going through stretches: fire, water, fire, air, fire, earth, fire -- Simple, easy. Every magical response is normal, his control doesn’t waver in the slightest. He gathers a fist full of fire to watch it burn. The steady stream of energy that tingles through his forearms is completely normal, nonthreatening. Nothing happens, no surge of greater energy like before, no huge wall of uncontrollable flame. He frowns and puts it out. 

It was probably a fluke, sometimes he does things without realizing, or his magic responds to his intent as opposed to direct commands. His intent _was_ to splash Derek. 

He goes through more difficult summonings and creations. Nothing, nothing, nothing. There’s a little tornado making circles around patch of forget-me-nots on the floor when Erica stomps across his roof and climbs into his bedroom like she owns the place. Stiles cuts off his magic quickly, watching her warily. He should have expected her to show up at his house; in all honesty, he’s disappointed in himself for not locking his window promptly when he got home.

Scott looks at her in surprise, hand halfway to his mouth, red Cheeto dust clinging to his fingers. There’s some on the back of his hand, the inside of his wrist. He looks at Stiles, then Erica, then Stiles again, eyebrows going up. Stiles shrugs at him. It’s obvious she’s here about last night. 

Erica strips off her leather jacket and slings it on his bed behind Scott, sitting down heavily and reaching for the bag of Cheetos before he even offers it to her. She’s wearing obscenely tight, dark wash jeans and a white shirt, the leopard print of her bra visible. He’s so weirdly attracted to her in the way that he can definitely see the appeal, but would be _terrified_ to be involved with all of that. 

If someone told him before Scott took the bite that his life would be full of intimidating women and men who angst a lot, he would have laughed and laughed and laughed at them, but go figure, here he is. 

She watches him from under heavily lined lids, her gaze calculating, ignoring Scott completely. He doesn’t like that look, usually that look means that she’s going to grill him endlessly. She gets the same look when they have debates about seemingly mundane shit like comics or movies. Erica can get pretty aggressive when she wants to convince you she’s right.

“What’s up, buttercup?” he asks, with a brightness he doesn’t feel. She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him.

“I’m going to ignore the fact that you called me that and then ask you the same question,” she says, after she swallows a mouthful of Cheeto. “You smelled scared last night, and since there was no immediate danger, I want to know _why_.” Stiles can’t hold back his groan.

“Why are you being nosey?” he asks, sharply, can’t help the way that he’s instantly defensive. It’s a tip off that there _is_ something wrong. He could try to remedy the situation, but it _is_ irritating. “Maybe a person would like some _privacy_ sometime, you know? Since everyone except for like _two_ of my friends can scent my emotions and tell when I’m lying. Can’t even go a day without washing my balls, everybody can fucking _tell_. ” That makes Scott look guilty as all hell. Erica doesn’t look sympathetic at all.

“You’re the one who decided to be part of a werewolf pack, dumbass, it comes with the territory,” Erica says. 

“ _Hey_ \--” Scott says, probably about to defend Stiles’ honor, because he’s an awesome friend like that. Stiles holds up his hand to silence Scott’s protests. There’s only so many conversations Scott can have for him, and this really isn’t one of them. 

“Well, then, me telling you to back off should be cause for you to back off,” he says, but there’s no heat in his voice. “Why are we even _talking_ about this?” he asks. Really, he’s closer to Erica than Isaac and _definitely_ Boyd, but they’re not paint-each-other’s-nails, girl-feelings type of friends. She’d gut him before she let him braid her hair. Plus, doing this while Scott is here? Well, she probably has an inkling that whatever it is, Scott knows about it, considering he had Scott drive him home last night. _Still_. 

“You were scared and you’re pack,” Erica says, lightly. Stiles scoffs at her.

“Or you’re just a busy body,” he accuses, waggling his index finger at her. She shrugs.

“Maybe that too, but I was thinking and I realized that I have no idea why you would feel that way about anything. You’re always fine. No matter what happens, you’re fine. Last night you were scared and you bailed, just like that.” Her eyes are intense and Stiles can’t look away, she looks sincere in a way he hasn’t seen before. “It’s out of character, and I’m curious.”

“ _That_ was out of character,” he says, gesturing to her and all her sincerity. She shrugs again, but doesn’t comment and instead waits for him to say something. He thinks about telling her, but then his stomach clenches up tightly like he’s going to vomit. Scott moves towards him, like he’s going to grab at Stiles to ground him or something, but Stiles shakes his head minutely. 

“Whoa, what just happened? You smell super sour right now,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him, then looking to Scott, noticing how he’s tilted forward on the bed, about to make for Stiles. Sour smell is anxiety, he knows, Derek once said it clung to him even when he was relaxed. That’s a chronic condition for you. 

His palms are sweating and he hasn’t actually decided whether or not he’s going to tell her, but he ushers his magic through his hands, weaving a soundproofed barrier around them anyway. The look on her face is suspicious, but she doesn’t say anything again. He takes a couple of deep breaths, but nothing will come out.

“I’m always scared,” she says, unexpectedly, all in one breath, forced out of her. She tugs her lip into her mouth with her top teeth, not looking at either of them, hands fidgeting on her lap slightly. 

Stiles gets the impression she’s trying to distract him, but he notices her posture is softer that it has been since she’s been bitten, she looks vulnerable, curving towards Scott as if she’s unconsciously seeking his comfort. That’s an interesting development to say the least. 

Stiles knows that this is a confidential exchange of information. Scott can tell too, if the way his eyes are wide is any indication. He relaxes minutely, tries to focus on what she’s telling him. Something she needs to get off of her chest in exchange for his secret, maybe he can work with that.

“I thought being a werewolf would get rid of that feeling, but it’s not gone, it’s just different.” Her fingers pluck at his blanket, voice quiet. “I only prefer being a werewolf more because I don’t feel weak anymore, but I’m still afraid everyday.”

“It’s been good though, I mean it’s been awhile since the kanima thing,” he says, quick to reassure her. It’s been long enough that Derek isn’t running them through endless, exhausting drills, or pouncing on them when they least expect it to keep them alert and at the ready. Derek’s philosophy when it comes to bad guys: _constant vigilance._ Erica nods hesitantly, still not look at him or Scott.

“Yeah, but how long is that going to last?” 

“A long time,” he tells her. “I mean, hopefully. I might be magic, but I’m not psychic.” That gets a smile out of her, even if it is strained. 

“Why don’t you talk to Derek about this?” Scott asks, keeping his voice quiet and level, matching hers. It’s the voice he uses when he’s trying to soothe cats right before he sticks them in the neck with a needle for their vaccinations. Thankfully, Erica doesn’t know that, but apparently him even speaking to her startles him enough that she jerks her head up and meets his eyes.

“I can’t really talk to Derek,” she says. “You know how he is.” Of course they do. Scott especially has had to deal with Derek’s emotional constipation and inability to have a mature conversation more than the rest of them.

Scott nods his head, arm going out like maybe he’s going to pat her, comfort her. It stalls in midair, though, unsure. Erica notices and gives a little smile, like she appreciates the effort, but understands why it’s weird. This whole thing is weird. 

Their pack isn’t the closest as a whole. Maybe it’s because they’re so new, or maybe it’s because they were never around each other to begin with before the bite. It’s Stiles and Scott, then Isaac and Boyd and Erica, then Jackson and Lydia, with Derek at the head. Sometimes it’s Stiles and Lydia or Scott and Isaac, but it’s rarely any other combination. They’re all very _clique-y_. 

Now, though, now they’re Erica and Stiles and Scott. It’s very weird. 

Stiles knows he owes her now, a confession for a confession. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and blurts, “ _I have a vagina._ ” 

Not eloquent, but it gets the job done. She startles and blinks, looking confused and frowny. Her eyes dart between him and Scott, wide and incredulous. 

“Are you fucking with me?” she accuses, kind of angrily. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, he didn’t think she wouldn’t _believe_ him. Scott seems to think the same thing, mouth dropping open in surprise.

“W-what? No, I’m not,” he says.“I’m totally one hundred percent not joking, _depressingly_ not joking.” 

“He’s not!” Scott says, body tipping towards her like _that’s_ what’s going to convince her, getting all up in her grill with his sincerity. He stops mid-tilt and scoots back.

“But you -- But you’re -- So, what, you’re a lesbian?” she asks, and Stiles has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. Scott does it for him, an almost vicious eye roll that Stiles has to keep from laughing at. _Of course_ , she would go there.

“ _No_ , not a lesbian or confused or--” he has to cut himself off before he gets angry. “I’m transgender.” She has this really blank look on her face and either she has no idea what he’s talking about or she doesn’t understand. 

“Like I was born with a vagina, but in my head I’m one-hundred percent a boy,” he says. He doesn’t have an notes for this, it isn’t _planned_ , he hasn’t had to explain ‘transgender’ to anyone in _years_. “It’s a thing -- like a psychological thing, it’s called Gender Identity Disorder. Just, google it sometime.” He waves his hand at her in a dismissive way. That’s all he’s got, that’s the extent of his explanation. 

“I believe you,” she says, even though it doesn’t really sound like she _does_. He sees Scott smile brightly. “I don’t really get it, but I believe you.” 

All he can do is nod at her as something in his chest loosens. That was surprisingly easy. Scott raises his hands in a cheesy thumbs up, still coated in red Cheeto gunk. Erica blinks at him then steals more Cheetos. It’s like she forgot Scott was there. She grins as she crunches. The flaming red of the Cheeto matches her lipstick.

“So, like wait, do you have tits?” she asks, laughing loudly when he groans, slamming his face into his palms. He looks up in time to see Scott elbow her neatly off of the bed. She flails gracelessly and falls sideways, picking herself back up reflexively, almost going to shove Scott back before remembering she has Cheeto crap on her hands. She settles for sticking her tongue out at him. 

Stiles looks between them with something like complete shock and awe. This is _so weird_. 

“Yeah, _actually_ , and _no_ , you can’t see them,” he says, a beat too late. Her mouth clacks shut comically. She smiles at him. 

“Your secret was way better than mine -- Who knows?” she asks. Scott stuffs more Cheetos into his mouth before raising his hand enthusiastically. 

“Uh, just a couple of people. My dad, Scott, Melissa, doctors, _Derek_ ,” he says ‘Derek’ bitterly. She laughs at him. “I didn’t tell Derek, he figured it out. I guess I don’t smell like a proper teenage boy.” 

He’s definitely pouting, but seriously, he had everyone fooled and now, well now he’s _voluntarily_ telling someone when he doesn’t have to, discussing it openly with someone who isn’t Scott--

She doesn’t sniff him like he expects, like Scott had, instead she just nods. “I could see that, I just thought you smelled like boy times 10, or something. Why aren’t you in gay club or anything? Doesn’t that fall under their acronym?” 

“Yeah, I just--” he sighs and tries to arrange the thoughts in his head. It’s usually such a jumble of anxiety up there when he thinks about it that he promptly backpedals and buries it all. “I don’t want people to treat me differently because of it.” She rolls her eyes at him. 

“You really think your friends will care? I mean, maybe if _Jackson_ was still around, but he’s not so there’s really nothing to worry about on the douchebag front. You’re still you, secretive genitalia aside.” She squeezes his shoulder for emphasis, and wow, Stiles really wasn’t expecting that level of support from Erica. Usually all their repartee has been thinly veiled threats and ridiculous psuedo-flirting, not sympathy and support.

Scott nods enthusiastically, nearly breaking his neck with how much he’s agreeing with her. 

“That’s what I told him! That’s what I tell him _all the time_!” he says, pointing a flaming hot Cheeto at Stiles aggressively. Erica nods sagely in agreement. Great, another person to gang up on him about his _outness_. Stiles sticks his tongue out at the both of them.

“So, can I see your vagina?” she asks, back to her normal self. He flails at her, horrified.

“No, no you may not!” he squawks. She laughs at him and pounces, wrestling him onto the floor. He tries to roll from under her, but she plants her ass on his hips and grips him with her thighs; he knows it’s a lost cause. He stops struggling and she wiggles on him a little bit.

“You better not be getting Cheeto shit all over me, Erica!” he squawks, trying to pull her hands to his face so he can inspect them, thrashing around. She squeezes the breath out of him with her thighs. Scott is laughing hysterically behind them, half-off the bed. The Cheetos were a _horrible_ idea. 

“I guess I’ll keep your secret until you’re ready,” she says, seriously, once he’s stop flailing around like his life depends on it. He lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, feeling lighter for it. 

“Thanks, Erica, I really appreciate it.”

“Okay, feelings time is over. I need a shower after all this _bonding_.”

“You say that, but I can see right through you, you’re relishing in this. You’re a secret feelings girl, I know it.” She doesn’t deny it, just laughs again and gives him a noogie. When she climbs off of him, Scott gets a smile too. It’s a small, happy curve of her mouth that Scott returns easily. 

“Yeah, you keep thinking that, just stop saying it out loud and I won’t have to slit your throat,” she says, happily, turning to window to leave. Stiles does not watch her ass as she climbs out.

“You have obviously been spending too much time around Derek,” Stiles shouts after her. He can hear her laughing from his yard. 

“Dude,” Scott says, slow and full of awe, still staring at the window. “Case of the body snatchers.”

“Tell me about it,” Stiles says. This is weird, too weird. Erica isn’t a bond-with-me girl, especially not with _them_. Honestly, he’s freaking himself out because he’s _not freaking out_. Never in a thousand years would he have thought he would a) not have a panic attack about Derek fucking Hale finding out or b) _voluntarily_ tell someone else, who had no reason to know beside the fact that they were maybe-sorta-sometimes friends. 

He swore to himself after Jared that he would take any introduction to his gender identity slowly. That he would think about the consequences before he just _told someone_. But here he is, breaking his own rules and he doesn’t even _mind_. It’s terrifying. 

“You good?” Scott asks, diving back into the bag of Cheetos. Practically his whole forearm disappears into it. Assholes ate Stiles’ whole bag. 

“Weirdly, yes,” Stiles says, blinking. Scott smiles again, with teeth, big and doofy. 

“Told you, what did I tell you, I _told you_.”

“Don’t, just don’t rub it in, yet,” Stiles says. Scott shrugs, hand searching the bottom of the Cheetos bag like there’s magically going to be more if he tries hard enough. Stiles scowls and snatches it away, shoving it into his trashcan. 

“Oh hey, oh hey, oh hey,” Stiles says, flexing his fingers. “Shit, where’s my--”

“You left it at the loft again,” Scott says, with a knowing smirk. Stiles throws a pen at him. “Sometimes I think you just abandon your stuff there so you have an excuse to go back no matter what day or time it is.”

“It’s our alpha’s loft, that’s enough of an excuse,” Stiles grumbles, even though he knows where Scott is going with that. Okay, sometimes he does leave his things around so he has to stop by the loft more often than the others. _Whatever_. Stiles snatches up his phone and googles the pack up north so he can show Scott the article. He can’t believe he didn’t think to mention it to Derek earlier.

“Dad told me about this,” Stiles says, knowing Scott is probably just going to look at the article and pretend to read it. “A pack up north got massacred, but it doesn’t look like hunter activity. Three people are still missing. According to dad, the community was werewolf friendly.” 

“That’s weird,” Scott says, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“The absolute weirdness,” Stiles agrees. “I need my laptop. If dad didn’t change the password--”

“Yeah, you should look into this. Do you think Derek knows?” Scott says, fingers scrolling through the article. Stiles shrugs. 

“Even if he does, do think he’ll do anything?” Stiles asks. This isn’t technically pack business, it doesn’t directly affect them. Derek will probably be reluctant to look into it because it might result in murder and mayhem.

“I hope so,” Scott says, with a frown. “It’d be kind of shitty if he didn’t.”

“Hey, I want to remind you that this is the man that you picked for your alpha,” Stiles says. Scott is taking _way_ too long with his phone. 

“You picked him too,” Scott says, smirking and tossing back his phone. Stiles’ hand catches the corner and sends it cartwheeling underneath the bed. 

“Fuck -- Yeah, don’t remind me.” Scott laughs at him and doesn’t try to help him get his phone out from under the bed. He’s a rotten best friend. 

 

 

Stiles is in the middle of starting a vision board for the pack up north when his phone vibrates across his desk. Granted, he only has the news article, but it’s a _start_. His back clenches when he twists violently to look at the display. It’s Lydia’s patented done-with-your-shit face. Big Red Calling. He slides to unlock, putting the phone on speaker at the same time.

“Alright, Stilinski, it’s been almost an entire day of you ignoring my text messages _and_ you weren’t at school. A little birdy told me you had a freakout last night during scent training.” Lydia’s voice is exasperated over the line, one long sigh. She only addresses him with his last name when she’s particularly irritated with him. 

“I didn’t tell you because I’m not trying to make it a big deal. Everyone is making it a big deal, though. Derek, Erica they know.”

“They know?”

“Yes, they know.”

“Know _what_ , Stilinski?” 

“The thing, the thing! My thing, my big secret-y thing.” Stiles says, instead of ‘my vagina thing’, because really, no, not today. Today, his vagina is like He Who Must Not Be Named. Don’t talk about, don’t even _think_ about it.

“You _told them_? I mean, I’m proud of you, but I didn’t really expect Derek and _Erica_ to be the first people you told, I thought maybe you’d go with Boyd, but _Erica_ \--” 

“I didn’t _tell them_. Well, I told Erica,” he sighs, and just tells her the story from the beginning, skipping over the part where he and Derek had that long, drawn out moment in his room. So, most of the story. Everyone and their mother can guess at his _thing_ for Derek, but that doesn’t mean he goes around advertising it. 

“I can’t believe he’s known all this time,” she says, when he’s finished. “I also still can’t believe you told _Erica_.”

“She snuck into my room to pester me about it!” Stiles protests. “She was persistent. _Just_ like a certain banshee I know.” Lydia is the only person who’s figured him out with wits alone. Apparently the day with the kanima in the pool was a dead giveaway for her, _somehow_. It was only a matter of time before she wore him down with annoyance and pointed glaring. When Lydia wanted information, she got it.

“How do you feel about this?” she asks and he can imagine her face screwed up in a frown like she has to concentrate on give a shit about other people’s feelings. Lydia is borderline sociopathic in her self-involvement. Stiles loves her for it.

“Better than I like to admit,” he mutters. “I’ve spent a really long time justifying to myself why I’m still ‘in’ about this, me being okay with her knowing completely challenges my self-denial.”

“I thought something like this might happen,” Lydia says, but doesn’t elaborate. She sides with Scott in thinking that Stiles should just come out with it and get it over with. They’re probably going to commiserate about this at some point. Actually, probably not, because they don’t hang out with each other one-on-one. Thank _god_. “We really need to work on your communication, you should have at least texted me last night.”

“Sorry,” he says. He does feel bad that he didn’t think to tell her sooner, but it’s not like Scott, she isn’t the first person to pop into his head when something huge happens. It’s not the same, even though they’re _way closer_ than they were before. Way closer than Stiles would have ever thought they would be. Which is _awesome_ , but Stiles forgets sometimes how much emotional maintenance Lydia needs. She likes to be the first to know things, loves to be involved in every aspect of the pack. Which is how she found out in the first place, by being a prying, no-good, busy-body. 

“I guess you’re forgiven right now, but we need to have a serious talk about who your pack confidant is,” she says, probably emphasized the point with a hair-flick even though Stiles can’t see her.

“Still Scott,” he sing-songs. “Hey, you feeling any urge to find any dead bodies yet?” A change in subject is definitely what they need right now. Lydia has yet to do anything a banshee would do, like mindlessly lead them to a body or wail out a warning. Stiles remains optimistic that she _never will_. 

Maybe Beacon Hills is finally past the murder-and-mayhem phase, maybe it’s all smooth sailing from here. _Maybe_ all Stiles has to worry about is not dying from sexual frustration around his alpha, making sure no one else finds out about his vagina, and getting his magic under control. 

Unlikely. Especially considering the pack up north, but hey, a guy can dream.

“Not yet,” Lydia says with a sniff, then, “Is this about that pack that got wiped out?”

“Yeah, I’m looking into it. Scott thinks it’s something that meets our qualifications, the dear boy.” It does, because _werewolfs_ , duh. Lydia giggles. 

“It does,” she says, then seriously, “I had a dream about it, I think. It was mostly voices that I couldn’t understand, but I saw bodies and then there were twins? I think, I don’t know.” 

“It’s okay, that’s a good start. And, hey, look at you with the banshee powers!” Stiles says, writing _TWINS!?_ on a sticky note and tacking it next to the article up on his wall. It’s a start.

“What’s the point of being a supernatural creature if you’re basically good for nothing?” Lydia asks, with an exasperated sigh. “All I’ve done is hallucinated an entire plot line with the younger version of a dead guy.”

“Don’t forget that awesome stint where you went running through the woods naked,” Stiles reminds her. “And resurrecting said dead guy! Besides, do you really want to tap into the quasi-seer thing banshees have going on and start freaking out everytime someone dies? Sounds like it would be hell on the vocal chords for one, you can’t give your valedictorian speech if you have laryngitis.” 

Lydia laughs at that, voice finally loosing it’s anxious tremor. “You’re right, Stilinski, being a banshee is so overrated.”

“Damn right,” he grins.

“Hey,” she says, voice serious again. “I’m proud of you.”

Stiles is supremely happy she can’t see how his face is turning ugly-red from blushing as he mumbles a thanks. Maybe things won’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was born from me spacing out at work and thinking about why we haven't seen Stiles shirtless and my mind wandered to chest binders and hormone therapy and Stiles' real name not being anything complicated, but in fact a female birth name. 
> 
> I did a series of papers on hormone treatment for transgender teenagers for an English class in college. That being said, I might have forgotten things or gotten them wrong. Feel free to bring up a discussion about anything you spot, as well as any questions! 
> 
> Remember! Everyone experiences their gender, gender expression, transitioning, etc, differently! This is just one representation of that.
> 
> [queerlyalex](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

Every time Stiles enters to loft he has to take a minute to appreciate the fact that Derek kept the mat Stile bought him as a housewarming gift. It’s tan and says “GREETINGS” under a picture of a dog sniffing another dog’s butt. Stiles bought it because he’s a predictable asshole. The fact that Derek _kept_ _it_ is proof of a hidden sense of humor that most people are surprised Derek possesses. Stiles is not surprised. Only someone cut from the same cloth of dry humor as Stiles could be as prickly as Derek is. 

The key he copied slides perfectly into the lock without sticking. Sure, he could use the keypad and enter the code to unlock the door instead, like a normal member of the pack, but there’s something about a key in a lock that just does it for him. Phallic metaphors aside, Stiles has a key to his house, Scott’s house, and now the loft. It’s the trifecta of key having. 

“Is that an actual, physical key?” Derek asks. There’s a carton of ice cream between his hairy thighs, loaded spoonful on course for his mouth. Derek eating ice cream in only his tight, black briefs means that no one else is home. Derek tries to stay clothed around most of the pack. They might have gotten over the awkward-boner phase of things, but born wolves still have a nonchalance about nudity that the others could never hope to possess. Stiles can appriciate it, at least. 

“It might be, but you can’t prove it,” Stiles says, attempting to be nonchalant. It’s not the easiest thing to pretend that seeing Derek nearly naked doesn’t affect him, but he manages. At least he thinks he does. He probably smells like a stew of teenage pheromones, cheeks all ruddy from the way he’s too hot. It’s not like he can control _that_ though. Normal bodily reactions aren’t voluntary, thank you very much. 

The key goes into his pocket quickly while he ignores Derek’s mile long stare. 

“What’s up?” Derek asks, already angling back towards the TV, watching Firefly. Ice cream, Firefly, and those _thighs_. Stiles is actually in heaven. 

On screen, River says “sad little king of sad little hill”. Derek raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

“When you do this, I genuinely wonder if you’ve found the werewolf equivalent of catnip. Do you roll around in wolfsbane and get high so you can eat sweets and watch Sci-Fi shows, mocking your pack’s sober lives?” 

There’s a hint of a smile around the edges of the silver spoon. Warmth explodes in Stiles’ chest. 

“Definitely getting into the ‘nip, look at you, smiling and shit,” Stiles says, throwing himself onto the couch next to Derek, liberating his ice cream from him. Derek’s glare is aggressive, but he doesn’t stop Stiles from taking his spoon and scooping up some. He watches Derek watch his mouth as he eats off the spoon obscenely. 

“I don’t know why you’re getting all excited,” Derek says. “Lydia mixed wolfsbane into the drinks at her birthday party.”

“But then there was hallucination and horrible, terrible things,” Stiles says, eating more ice cream. It’s less seductive this time, because Derek has the good shit and Stiles is definitely going to eat his share before the wolfnip munchies set in. “You don’t look like you’re hallucinating. You just look… relaxed. I should be live blogging this. Derek Hale, smiling.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, with a roll of his eyes, but they’re soft around the edges, amused. Stiles wants to press his thumbs into Derek’s little crows feet. “I’m not stoned. There is no catnip for wolves. That I know of. You know more about wolfsbane strains than I do.”

“Right, so, what’s this then? When everyone is off doing who _knows what_ , you just kick it here like a teenager?” Stiles asks, sinking towards Derek’s warmth. They’re not quite touching, but Stiles can feel Derek’s presence along his side. The places they would connect if they were touching. 

“Don’t be weird,” Derek replies, but he doesn’t deny it. Stiles likes this, the easy way Derek has around him. It’s not just Stiles, he knows, but Stiles has been working for this. Derek would have bitten the betas regardless, but Deaton talked Derek into taking Stiles on to bind his wealth of magic. Derek took him in even though he was a fire-starter like Kate and, most importantly, let him stay. Stiles has been fighting for his trust. Sometimes, on days like this, Stiles thinks he may be close to getting it. 

It’s not easy for Derek, Stiles knows, especially with the pack as a whole. They’re all too disjointed for Derek’s liking. Loyalties and trust in different people. He wonders how different it is, shifting between a pack that was completely family to hardly any pack at all to a pack that is a decent size, but isn’t as close as they could be.

Stiles thinks of the way he and Lydia hang out, the way Isaac and Scott have been slowly gravitating towards each other. He thinks of Erica climbing through his window to talk to him _and_ Scott. They’ll get there. It’ll just be slow, like with Derek. They have to learn where they fit together. After the incident with the kanima dividing them so severely, they just need to take the time. 

“What’s Erica’s favorite color?” Stiles asks, because he doesn’t know. Derek blinks at him.

“Red, why?” 

“I feel like that was predictable. What’s your favorite color?” 

“Gray,” Derek says, stealing the ice cream back. Stiles narrows his eyes.

“That is the stupidest--”

“What’s your favorite color? Purple?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised, as if he’s _judging_ Stiles’ favorite color. Which, _rude_.

“Did you just say purple because I’m trans?” Stiles asks, rolling his eyes. “It’s actually _teal_ , thanks. The color of my _Jeep_.” Derek is just staring at him and Stiles takes a moment to realize it’s because he said he was trans. It just slipped out without a thought. That has _never_ happened before. 

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it,” Derek says, mouth wrapping around the spoon. Stiles doesn’t even make an effort not to watch. Not for the first time he wishes he had a dick so he could see the way Derek’s mouth would look around it. God, he’s such a pervert.

“I don’t,” Stiles says, turning red. He doesn’t, he really doesn’t. There’s nothing in the world that he wants to discuss less. It’s just messing him up with Derek calling him out on it and then Erica. 

“Freudian slip,” Derek says, tipping the spoon towards Stiles in a salute. Stiles rolls his eyes and snatches the spoon, tries and fails not to think about how they’re sharing it. It’s like a date night, though Stiles might be a little over dressed considering Derek is only wearing one article of clothing. He thinks about being comfortable enough around Derek to not wear his binder and flushes at the thought. That’s _not_ going to happen any time soon, Stiles thinks, shoving the notion aside. 

“No, nope, not Freudian, not anything except that I might have told Erica like the day after you said something,” he says, pointedly avoiding Derek’s knowing look. There should be a club that all his friends can go to and talk about how beneficial it would be for Stiles to be out. “It was all very sudden, I don’t even know _why_ \-- I mean, I do, she was persistent, but _geez_.” 

Stiles drops the ice cream container onto the table. Derek’s hands reach out to steady it, eyes wide. Stiles shoves his hands through his hair. 

“No, right, I mean, what do you want me to say? It’s a thing, you know it’s a thing. You’ve _known_ it’s a thing. I’m not freaking out about it as badly as I could be, neither are you,” Stiles says, gesturing back and forth between himself and Derek like a one-sided ping pong match. How is this his life? One second he’s a happily closeted trans, and the next he’s _willingly_ telling people about his vagina and discussing it with _Derek Hale_ of all people. Stiles just blinks at Derek for too long. Derek raises his eyebrows. “It’s good, it’s cool. I don’t know why I’ve spent the last four years of my life freaking out about all this, but I did and now I see what a huge waste of time that was.” 

Derek’s mouth has been slowly growing into a larger smile, bit by bit as Stiles has been talking, as if that’s what he was hoping for. It probably was.

“Just, don’t say anything about it to anyone, okay?” 

“I won’t,” Derek says, very seriously. Stiles believes him, but he holds out his pinky anyway. 

“Promise, just for peace of mind,” Stiles says. Derek looks at his pinky like it’s offensive, like he doesn’t quite know what to do to do with it. “Pinky swear? Dude, really?” Derek’s eyes blink and focus on Stiles’, something unreadable in them. 

“Sorry, just, Cora used to make me do it all the time,” he says, cheeks turning pink as he grabs Stiles’ pinky with his own. A little spark of magic dances over their entwined pinkies, sealing the deal and zapping them both. Derek withdraws his hand quickly with a huff. 

Cora. Stiles knows about Cora. He knows all about the Hales due to an obsessive streak when Peter first started his killing people thing, back when Stiles didn’t even know Derek. Cora was in the same grade as him, they talked a little bit. Derek hasn’t ever mentioned her before. He doesn’t talk about any of them, not really. Stiles wants to ask about her, but he doesn’t want to push Derek out of this comfortable camaraderie they’ve established so he drops it.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Derek says, with a small smile. Stiles ducks his head, because he really doesn’t need to see the warmth in Derek’s face. Well, he does, but it puts his insides through a roller coaster ride that’s really hard to handle, and just, yeah, not looking.

“Me too,” he says, honestly, shoving the spoon in his mouth. 

“Why are you here?” Derek asks, after a few minutes of them passing the ice cream back and forth. 

“I left my laptop here. Y’know, the one with the bestiary and resources? It’s in Isaac’s room.”

“And you’re sitting here, because?” 

“Dude, I was enjoying your company! Don’t be rude. What, resident magic user can’t just take some time to chill with his alpha and eat some ice cream?” 

“Not when the magic user apparently has something to research,” Derek says, grip tightening on the ice cream so Stiles can’t take it from him. Stiles lets go with a huff. 

“Yeah, I do, don’t you?” Stiles asks, standing and stretching. Derek’s eyes dart down to his lap quickly when Stiles turns. He was probably watching Stiles stretch like a creeper. Stiles smirks. 

“About what?” Derek asks. The tips of his ears are pink. It’s _adorable_. 

“The pack, up north? The very _dead_ pack up north? That’s y’know, dead?” Stiles can’t believe Derek really hasn’t heard anything about it. 

“Stiles, _don’t_ \--”

“Please tell me you were planning on looking into this?” Stiles says, incredulous. Derek can’t just let it _lie_. There’s 10 werewolves _dead_ , completely _dead_. He of _all people_ \-- “Just at least, following the story, or something, anything? Ask the Argents?” 

Derek _growls_ at him for that, which isn’t actually intimidating because Derek is eating ice cream in his _underwear_ , but it makes Stiles shut up nonetheless. They’ve had longs talk about ‘respecting the alpha’. Many times. 

“It’s not our business, we’re not making it our business,” Derek says, standing. He’s barely taller than Stiles, but the looming is effective. Stiles is hoping that with the T and a growth spurt, he’ll end up taller than Derek. Which would be _hilarious._

“People are dead, dude, _a lot_ of people. You would think that you, _of all people_ ,might want to help the missing three, just maybe? You know, since you also lost your _entire pack_. Does this not warrant your sympathy, oh mighty alpha?” Stiles squares his shoulders again Derek’s glare because seriously, _seriously_?

“Don’t, Stiles--”

“Don’t what? Bring up your dead family and the fact that there’s now three wolves out there with a dead family as well?” Stiles says, stepping away from Derek so he doesn’t do something stupid like shove him. He’s so angry. “Sorry, does that hit too close to home? But wait! It’s not enough of a sore spot that you actually want to help, right?” 

Derek clenches his jaw, flexing his hands like he wishes that he could push Stiles up against something and growl him into submission. Stiles wishes he would, just this once, for old time’s sake so he could punch Derek for being such a damn asshole. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Stiles says, roughly, turning and just fucking leaving because he can’t handle this right now. Not when everything was going to well, either. But that’s his track record with Derek, isn’t it? Things go well until they really, _really_ don’t. He slams the door to the loft extra hard, just to be obnoxious.

It isn’t until he’s halfway home does he realize he left his laptop.

 

 

When he gets into AP Math, Lydia’s hand tightens in a vice grip around his arm, pulling him to her. His sneakers squeak roughly against the tile as his loose arm flails wildly. People seriously need to stop manhandling him. 

“The twins,” she saids, voice a sharp whisper. Her eyes are wide. They still have a few minutes before the bell, students trickling in behind them. “I saw them, they just got here. They were in the office, getting new schedules.”

Stiles widens his eyes at her dramatically, hands flying around in surprise. She purses her lips and nods her head at him. What are the chances of newly enrolled twins that aren’t the two missing twins from the pack up north? Probably astronomically high. They don’t even know if the twins are werewolves, much less orphans, but Stiles can feel a sizzle in his gut that tells him _these_ are definitely _the_ twins. 

“What classes do they have?” Stiles asks. Lydia rolls her eyes.

“I don’t know, I didn’t ask to see their schedules!”

“You _should have_.”

“What I’m just supposed to march up there and demand to see what classes they’re in? Yes, Stiles, I should definitely do that, I love sounding like a _crazy person_!”

“You don’t march, you _sashay_ and you touch their arm and ask to see what classes they’re in because you’re interested in the new people who are coming to our school,” Stiles says, gesturing to all of her… _Lydianess_ pointedly. There’s _so much_ Lydianess. Today, she’s wearing a teal and white dress with gray heels. Totally, drop-dead stunning.

“You want me to flirt with them?” Lydia asks, glaring at him. The bell rings shrilly, making Stiles groan. They go to their respective seats which are near enough to each other for Lydia to meet his eyes. 

“Yes, no duh, I want you to flirt with them! This is need-to-know,” Stiles hisses at her, peering around the girl between them, Amanda or something. Mr Tipton clears his throat obnoxiously at the front so Stiles shuts up because he doesn’t need detention when he has a pack mass-murder to investigate. It doesn’t stop him from glaring at Lydia every so often. He knows she’s deliberately ignoring him. Hopefully, she can feel the weight of his stare. She’s got the goods, she needs to use them for, well, _good_. 

“ _Fine_ ,” Lydia snaps at him when they leave class, before he even says _anything_. He mentally fist pumps, maybe he’s getting better at the whole glare-to-death thing. One day, he’ll be able to give Derek a run for his money. “I’ll flirt and ask them about it, but I swear to _god_ if one of them gets the wrong idea, I’m using you as a human shield.”

Of course, that’s the moment when Stiles spots them down the hall. They’re all broad shoulders and blonde hair, identical male-model smirks. Stiles flails in their direction before staring at Lydia incredulously. 

“Yeah, that’s a real hardship for you, Lyds,” he says. She just rolls her eyes and purses her lips together. 

“Using my body as a manipulation tool is so last year,” she says, haughtily, before she flips her hair as a dismissal and stops at her locker. The minute bell rings before Stiles can berate her about the whole thing more. It’s not like he’s trying to exploit her good looks or anything, but sometimes that’s the only way to do things. He scowls. If _he_ could flirt his way into their good graces he _would_. But, he’s not so great with the flirting, or even getting into people’s good graces. It’s a miracle he even has the friends that he does. Even that is probably a coincidence more than anything. Except for Scott, of course.

Stiles slides into the classroom right as the final bell sounds shrilly through the halls. He stalls in the doorway, eyes drawn to the woman at the front of the class who is _definitely_ not Mr. Mason. She’s a leggy brunette with a pretty face and sharp features. When she looks at him, eyes narrowing in surprise, Stiles gets a fully body shuddering feeling that makes him convulse. Stiles doesn’t think she notices. That’s the first clue that there’s something hinky in works. No one, _no one_ gives him the nasty feels unless they’re downright _evil_. 

Peter gives him the nasty feels. _Enough said_.

“We’re going to continue where your last teacher left off,” she says. “Jennifer Blake” is written on the board in looping writing. When she does roll call, she stops at Stiles’ name and makes a _face_.

“Stiles Stilinski?” she asks, looking up to where his hand is dutifully raised. “That sounds like a nickname: Stiles. I need you all to know I don’t allow nicknames in my class.” She smiles blandly at him and he returns the expression.

“It’s my legal name,” he responds, leg bouncing. She makes a skeptical face and just ‘hmm’s at him before moving on. He blinks, because that was weird. 

Who doesn’t let their students give names in the first place? Some of those names are _hard_. Plus, what the hell, he usually gets flack for his name because right, it’s kind of weird -- Stiles Stilinski -- but he was _five_ when he picked it and by the time he realized that having a first name that was derivative of his last name got him questions _all the time_ , it was too late to change because everyone was already using it.

“I don’t like her,” he announces to Scott, in a low voice, once she’s set them all off on the day’s independent writing assignment. _Nonfiction: write about a time you were afraid, using clear language to convey sensory information in the scene (smell, touch, taste, etc.)_. Stiles has a brief flash of uncomfortably wet clothing, aching muscles, Derek’s warmth pressing against him, the clatter of kanima claws on tile.

“What’s the issue, dude?” Scott asks.

“I don’t know, she feels _hinky_ ,” Stiles says, slouching in his seat and watching Ms Blake warily.

“Hinky?”

“ _Totally_ hinky.” Stiles can tell when someone has magic in them, it’s like a slow electrical ebb in the air, and today it’s pulling him towards Ms Blake, aggressively. She has a lot of power in her, whether it’s active or dormant is yet to be determined, but Stiles has enough experience to know that outside of their little group of supernatural beings, everyone else is usually evil. Really evil, and a lot mean. Even _inside_ their little group, look at Allison. And Isaac. Mean, the both of them. Well, some of the time.They’re lucky Jackson is gone, it brings down the douchebag numbers.

When the bell rings, Stiles switches out his books at his locker, only jumping slightly when Erica slams it shut. Again. Today, she has on a forest green corset, tight jeans, and thick heeled boots. Stiles flushes. Erica smirks, like she knows exactly what she’s thinking. He scowls at her. There’s a healthy dose of testosterone in his system at all times, he’s a horny teenager, she can reserve the judgement.

“Is this going to be a habit?” he asks, gesturing at her and the locker and them. “Considering our history with violence, I would feel a lot safer if there was less _slamming_ when we’re together.” Erica’s eyebrow arches in a truly unimpressed fashion, and she crowds him against the locker with her body. Stiles swallows.

“Oh, I’ll _slam you_ , Stilinski,” she says, all innuendo. Stiles is concerned for all the wolves that decide that throwing him into things is _foreplay_ or something. So, besides Erica, just Derek. That’s not that bad. She smirks like she knows what he’s thinking.

The bell rings and she taps his cheek with a manicured finger before flouncing away, leaving him entirely confused and weirdly aroused. He’s not quite sure what just happened.

Isaac is in Home Ec with him and Scott, so Stiles plops his books down in the desk closest to him. Isaac just gives him a _look_. Stiles has about three seconds before the teacher will want them to settle down.

“What? Geez. Hey, so you have Ms Blake for English, right?” Might as well get to it, Isaac is already looking at him suspiciously. Stiles can’t pull off nonchalance _at all_. “She seem, uh, weird to you? Like, weird of the distinctly non-human variety?”

“Not at all,” he says finally, after looking at Stiles like he has three heads. “She’s kind of hot.”

Stiles throws up his hands in exasperation and relocates to the back of the room where he usually sits with Scott. 

“All you wolves are ridiculous,” Stiles tells him, slouching in his chair, pouting. “I can’t even begin to tell you how ridiculous you all are. It actually hurts my soul a little bit.”

“It’s not like we don’t trust your judgement, Stiles,” Scott replies, doing that thing with his face that implies sincerity. Damn right they should trust his judgment, he actually has the best judgment out of all of them. “We just don’t see it.” Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“I am fully aware of that. Just so you know, when I’m right, I won’t stop saying ‘I told you so’ for at least a month.” Scott just smiles crookedly at him in agreement. Asshole.

 

 

“Maybe you guys just have oppositional magic,” Lydia suggests during Chem, when Stiles brings it up to her. Stiles shrugs, hypothetically if she was a water-based user there could be power tension, but not enough that she would give him the serious heebeegeebees. 

“I don’t like her either, if that makes you feel better,” she says, filling in answers quickly and not looking at him. “She feels like… decay.” She purses her lips, which Stiles has learned means there’s something she’s going to say that she doesn’t necessarily want to say. “Like Peter did, after.”

Stiles stares at Lydia for a little while, she never talks about Peter, _never_. They all try not to. But, that means his full body shudder was onto something.

“So potentially, she’s a zombie,” Stiles exclaims, as quietly as he can. Boyd’s shoulders tense at the front of the room, none of them like zombies. Lydia rolls her eyes quickly, filling in more of the sheet while he stares at her.

“No, I think it’s how the magic feels? Death magic, necromancy?”

“Technically, you’re a necromancer, because you talk to the dead,” Stiles points out, totally helpful. Not that Lydia has actually communicated with anyone that is dead besides Peter. _Was_ dead, because now he’s not. _Zombie_. 

Also, if she reminds Lydia of Peter, that’s definitely the first place they need to seriously investigate what the hell is up. Peter is a set of incidences that no one wants to revisit. Stiles wasn’t exactly _there_ for most of it, but formerly alpha werewolf who can rise from the dead with the aid of a banshee? Yeah, do not want. 

“I _know_ what necromancy means, Stiles,” Lydia hisses, clearly done with his shit. She finishes the questions on her sheet then shoves it in Stiles’ direction so he can copy her answers. He jots down the ones he doesn’t already have done. “I’m agreeing with you, but I’m not sure anyone else does. Scott said he doesn’t get it, right?”

“Yeah, he’s just like clueless, trusting, good ol’ Scott,” Stiles replies, though Scott is getting better about the trusting. The shit they’ve all been through as shown them that they can’t all be too careful, even though Scott would love to believe that everyone’s intentions are for the greater good. 

Oh, naiveity, thy name is McCall.

“Chances are good this is a wolf-whammy,” Stiles says, thoughtfully. If the betas agree that’s she’s not weird, but Lydia thinks that she _is_. It’s worth exploring. Some kind of compliance spell, maybe. Stiles hasn’t heard of any command that allows a magic user to control another person’s magic, but there’s all sorts of things that people can do with magic if they set their mind to it. “There’s literally no reason to talk to betas about it.”

“Did you just figure that out?” she asks, with a roll of her eyes. “Too bad Boyd doesn’t have class with her.” Stiles makes a noise of agreement in his throat. 

“Neither does Erica. Maybe we can set up some kind of meet cute for them, so they can get to vibin’.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lydia says, but her lips are pursed in a way that suggests that her mind is on a different track than that. 

“I want to bring it up during lunch, but at the same time I don’t,” Stiles says, bringing her back to the _now_ issue. They’re already done with their worksheet, so it’s not like he’s busy with anything else. “I’m really not interested in including the entire pack in the discussion. They’ll probably talk about her degrees of hotness versus the likelihood that she’s evil. It will be exhausting.” He’ll have to mentally brace himself for a whole hour of rolling his eyes at people as they talk.

Lydia nods along absently, but doesn’t get to respond because, _thank god_ the bell rings. They drop their worksheets on the teacher’s desk and head out for the cafeteria. They get in line for pizza while Stiles weighs pros and cons of bring up Ms Blake to the pack as a whole while they eat lunch. He decides against it. The whole hinky-ness of the situation needs to be further investigated, especially if the werewolves are _influenced_. 

When they get to the table, Stiles just leans over and presses his forehead to the wood, taking a few deep breaths. Everything has to be complicated, why is everything complicated? There’s a generally jostling of the rest of the pack settling into place, the dull cadence of conversation. Stiles doesn’t even want to eat, everything is just so _blah_. 

“Your pizza is on fire,” Lydia says, casually. Stiles jerks up to see that, yes, his lunch is actually in flames, the smell of burnt cheese permeating around the lunch table. Scott and Erica look at it in surprise. Stiles reels in his magical energy, frowning at his forearms. He doesn’t know how he didn’t feel it start to flow out of him.

“What just happened, Stiles?” Isaac asks, sharply.

“N-nothing,” he lies, and everyone looks at him with disbelieving expressions. Even Boyd. His anxiety is building again, for no fucking reason. Scott’s face is lined with concern, he can probably smell it. Damn super sniffers.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, even though everyone can hear him. It’s endearing that Scott is concerned, it really is. 

“Yeah, a-okay, all systems operating at 100 percent,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. Scott nods, but rocks their legs together under the table. Stiles appreciates the solidarity.

“So, should we ask Deaton about this?” Erica asks. Stiles winces, because asking Deaton would be admitting to a higher power that there’s something of concern going on, and Stiles really doesn’t want there to be. It’s been _nice_ not having to be concerned for their lives. The drama with the Argents and Jackson was exhausting, he doesn’t want a repeat incident with _anything_.

“No, nope, I’ll figure it out,” Stiles says, hastily, gnawing on his thumb nail. She narrows her eyes at him, but doesn’t comment on his deflection. They’re all such good people.

 

 

Stiles fiddles with his phone while he crouches behind the farthest building on the south side of campus. He’s supposed to be in PE, but he doesn’t want to do it. Coach ran them ragged during morning practices and his thighs have been burning ever since. An inside source, aka Scott who has PE first hour, told him they’re running a timed mile today and Stiles is so not down with that. 

It’s the perfect hiding spot because he has a decent view of the track where his class is running laps. He’ll be able to tell when they’re done. Usually on days that they run the mile they get let out early because it doesn’t take an entire hour to run four laps. 

“Hey, Stiles?” Allison asks, out of nowhere. Stiles has a mini-heart attack, squeals, pitching over. He braces himself on the wall, taking deep breaths in and out, trying to calm down his heart. Allison’s hopeful smile falls into a look of concern, but he waves her off, still breathing heavily. 

“H-hey, Allison, did not expect you here, wow, I think I’m dying,” he inhales and holds, feeling his heart pump in his chest. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, looking worried again. He shrugs. His breathing is almost back to normal. 

“No big, no biggie, hey what’s up Allison?” 

“I just wanted to talk,” she says, leaning her shoulder up against the wall in front of him. The action makes it so that Stiles is blocked in, trapped. Of course, if she wasn’t leaning he would still be trapped. Fire starter or not, Allison is uncontested in hand-to-hand combat. And scary. Really, really scary. 

Stiles waits for her to go on. There’s a beat of silence. Then two. 

“I just wanted to apologize, I know you’re probably still mad at me,” she says, eyes watching the ground now. He’s been trying to ignore it, what happened with Gerard and the basement, how he felt when he found out that Allison was the one to kidnap Erica and Boyd. She’s making that really difficult to do by confronting him about it.

“I’m already working on forgiving you,” Stiles says, truthfully. There’s still affection there, from when she was with Scott. Stiles knows Scott still loves her to death and Stiles isn’t good at holding grudges. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to forgive her, though. “I just need more time. I mean, with Erica and Boyd -- It was really cruel, Allison. I try to think about how devastated you were, about your mom and yeah, I mean I get it, but.”

Allison looks completely contrite, eyes glistening like she might shed a tear. Stiles knows she won’t. Her face is just really expressive, like Stiles’. It makes him ache, but he doesn’t particularly want to comfort her yet. They’ll get there, but there’s a lot Stiles has been bottling up, resentment. 

“Everyone has a dead somebody. You were with us, I mean the whole time you were on our side with the kanima and then you just went Dark Side without even _asking_ ,” Stiles continues. He should say this, he needs to. It was bad enough that Derek didn’t believe Stiles about Lydia not being the kanima, even though Lydia said _outright_ that Peter bit her to trigger her banshee blood. Then Allison went and changed sides when she knew how both Stiles and Scott felt betrayed by their alpha. It made things harder. 

And, it fucking sucked. Stiles wasn’t just indignant for the sake of being indignant. Allison was this amazing person that his best friend loved -- still loves. They were on their way to being the Golden freaking Trio and she totally shot that whole thing full of arrows and electrocuted it in her basement. Okay, so that metaphor got away from him. He squints at her.

“You were like pack, you know? And then you hunted my pack members and tortured them because you were hurt, which I get, but you didn’t try to get the whole truth from us.” Stiles grimaces. He’s fully aware that it can’t be easy being Allison in this situation, but none of them have really had it easy so far.

Allison does the Allison equivalent of fidgeting. Which means she shifts her weight and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before pulling it out again to mess with it. 

“I get it,” she says, after long moments of her staring at the ground and Stiles staring at her. “I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. It was a pretty crazy time, you know? I already had to watch Kate die. She might have been insane, but I didn’t know that side of her. She was my best friend... Then, my mom.”

She bites her lip and finally looks at Stiles, eyes filmy, but still no tears. Stiles always forgets that she was there when Peter killed Kate, when Derek first became the alpha. Stiles wasn’t, Stiles was banned from leaving the house after 6pm the entire time Peter was loose and killing people. His dad made sure he stayed away from everything. Stiles always wonders what would have happened if his dad hadn’t stopped him from sneaking out and trying to find the missing half of Laura Hale’s body. Shudder to think what would have happened if he came across _Peter_.

“It felt like Derek was targeting us. I didn’t know she attacked Scott, I wouldn’t have -- you _know_ I wouldn’t have -- I just felt trapped and it was easy to go along with Gerard and act on my anger.” She sighs and slumps against the wall, shoulders rounding in defeat. 

“Everyone’s more or less forgiven me,” Allison says. By that she means Lydia, Scott, and Isaac. Stiles doesn’t know if she’s talked to Derek. What he does know is that there’s no way in hell Erica or Boyd have forgiven her. “I’m just asking that you do too. It would mean a lot to me.”

Stiles watches her. Sincere, but insecure smile on her face, the way her eyes are huge and earnest. As a hunter who allies strongly with a pack of werewolves, she’s a good asset to have. She’s good for training, when the wolves need to be reminded of the differences between a human who knows what they’re doing and, well, _Stiles_. Scott is easier to influence with her, but she’s objective, for the most part. At least, she was before, and she might be now that she’s seen the error of her ways. There’s always an advantage to having an alliance with the Argents, be it Scott or Isaac, or merely a friendship that she feels obligated to because she fucked his pack over in the past. 

Stiles nods, slowly, like he’s hesitating, but he knows he was probably always going to say yes. It’s hard to say no to Allison and she’s important, Stiles _knows_ she’s important. He can feel it in his nerve endings, the way they tingle when she gives him a grin and hugs him. She’s important to Scott, important to it all. Beacon Hills needs her, for whatever reason. Stiles won’t deny her that.

 

 

Stiles plans on going to Derek’s directly after school to tell him about Jennifer Blake, because she’s definitely hinky, no matter what the other wolves think. Derek should know, so they’re prepared when something totally bad and awful happens. Plus, an excuse to see Derek is always the best kind of excuse in his book.

Halfway there, there’s a sizzle through his veins, hot and unexpected--

His Jeep dies completely, shorted out by the electricity that surges through him all at once. He wrenches the wheel over to direct the Jeep onto the shoulder as it slows quickly, coming to a dead stop as it rolls through the rocks. There are yellow sparks and trailing magic hopping around the cab, lighting up the space.

Stiles gets the door open, barely, trying to escape the electrically charged trap that is his Jeep. It keeps giving him little annoying zaps, irritating against his skin. So much for plastic discharging an electric current, fuck. It’s probably different when it’s magical, but _still_. He flaps his hands around, trying to get the power to disperse.

He doesn’t even fuck around with lightning magic, _what the hell_. 

His Jeep is doing weird shudder-like spasms, radio glitching through stations, lights flickering. Stiles draws out his phone, only to see that it’s completely dead. White and black static flickers across the screen teasingly when he glares at it, before mournfully returning to black.

He’s only a half mile from the gas station, he could totally walk it. There are sparks of lightning magic still skipping across the surface of the Jeep as he nears, but they glance off of him without harm, apparently accepting him as one of them. He snatches his wallet up quickly, backing away. 

There’s not much he can do about the fact that his Jeep is sizzling and crackling with magical energy, it’s not him; there’s no tell-tale tingle in his arms, so he just leaves it where it’s at and heads back towards the gas station so he can get his hands on a phone. Stupid, dramatic magic.

It isn’t long before Scott is pulling up on his dirt bike, chucking up his visor to softly glare at Stiles. Soft glaring, totally a thing. Scott’s too sweet on Stiles to danger-glare at him like Derek does.

“I thought you were going to talk to Deaton?” Scott asks, as Stiles hops on the back of his bike. Stiles wiggles around to get comfortable and clenches Scott around the waist, digging his chin into Scott’s shoulder. 

“No homo, dude, and it’s been like four hours since I said that, you can’t hold me to it yet.”

“I can’t believe you just ‘no homo’d me, that’s so ignorant of you,” Scott wrinkles his nose haughtily before slamming down his helmet and starting up, hand on the clutch.

“I’m trying to blend in, straight boys ‘no homo’ all the time, don’t be like that,” Stiles says, teasingly.

“Like you could ever be straight,” Scott responds, voice lifting over the whirl of his engine. Stiles lets it drop, because _point_ and Stiles can’t hear Scott over the combination of the wind and the running motor. It’s only a couple of minutes before they roll up on the Jeep, sitting innocently. Stiles smacks the hood. Nothing happens.

“It was sparking and being crazy,” Stiles says, surveying the dash. When he turns the key, the whole thing starts up beautifully, no indication that it was completely dead just over ten minutes ago. “Piece of shit,” he says with feeling, before regretting it and patting her apologetically. 

Scott shrugs at him, like it’s no big deal he had to ditch whatever after school activities he was doing and drive out 15 minutes to pick Stiles up. 

“Going to Derek’s?” he asks, starting up his bike. Stiles just nods, drumming out a quick tattoo of nervous energy on the steering wheel. He doesn’t feel like he’s about to go Electro on it again, so he figures it’s safe to drive. Scott jerks his head in the direction of Derek’s loft, indicating he’s coming with.

Everything goes well until they pull into the parking lot. Stiles starts sparking again, worse this time, it actually hurts a little. He yelps and rips the keys out of the ignition, slams out of the Jeep with force. Scott rushes over, patting at him like he can discharge the static. He just gets zapped for his efforts. 

Stiles tries to reel it in as they walk up the stairs, keeping his hand on the metal railing of the stairs attempting to discharge it. It’s completely gone when they finally get to Derek’s loft and Stiles looks at Scott very seriously and makes a slicing motion across his throat. 

Stiles is _not_ going to tell Derek that he was sparking with electricity and it _wouldn’t stop_. That’s not conducive to a good conversation. Plus, they haven’t even talked since Derek told Stiles to fuck all about the pack up north. Stiles is still indignant about the whole thing, but maybe the Jennifer Blake situation will distract him while Stiles investigates the twins on the downlow.

Scott nods in agreement, because Scott is the best. Stiles will deal with the magic thing later. Maybe it’s magical puberty, or a change in the earth’s magnetic pole or _something_.

Scott enters the door code into the keypad, unlocking the door with a _beep_ and a _shick_. Stiles is a little disappointed he didn’t insist on using his key. 

“You look like you put your finger in an electrical socket, Stiles,” Isaac says, smirk in his voice. He’s lounging with Danny on the sectional in the open space that’s been claimed as the living room, what he assumes is a project laid out on the table in front of them.

Jackson had been courting Danny before he left, trying to get Derek to make him part of the pack. Danny's studying magic extensively and he's extremely competent with runes and spell materials. They haven’t continued without Jackson because he was _Jackson’s_ to invite, but Stiles thinks it might be a good idea, now that there are nefarious happenings afoot. The more numbers, the better.

Stiles flips Isaac off absently, still scheming about Danny, but runs his hands through his hair anyway, reshaping it. Scott laughs and pushes past him into the loft, flinging his backpack onto the end of the couch.

“What took you so long? I thought you were coming over after school?” Derek asks. He’s leaning against the island in the kitchen, shirtless, all gorgeous lines of muscle, mug in his hand. He’s probably drinking tea, because Derek Hale is a tea drinker, a _loose leaf_ tea drinker. It’s obnoxiously charming. 

Peter is drinking tea in the kitchen as well, but it’s less charming. Not charming _at all_ , in fact. Especially when he’s looking at Stiles with a smirk. Stiles really hates Peter’s face. 

“Yeah, well I didn’t,” Stiles deflects. He can’t exactly lie to Derek, but he can avoid the question like a motherfucker. Evasion is his middle name. Well, it’s not, it’s ‘Marie’ or at least it _was_. When Stiles changed his name he didn’t pick a new middle name; Stiles Stilinski sounds way better without the interruption. 

Stiles did text Derek that, but Derek hadn’t responded so Stiles assumed Derek was either still ticked or just pouting in that surly way of his. Apparently, he was just disinclined to text Stiles back. Which, whatever, that doesn’’t hurt Stiles’ feelings _at all_. They can totally ignore all the issues between them until it blew up in both of their faces. That’s healthy, _sure_. 

Derek just arches his eyebrows disbelievingly at him. Hairy caterpillars of disbelief. 

“I think Stiles is lying, Derek,” Peter says, voice saccharine. Stiles represses a shudder.

“Nobody asked you, Claudius,” Stiles snaps. Derek hates when Stiles lies by omission, but usually doesn’t call him out on it. For all they know, Stiles could have been jerking off and that’s why he’s late. There’s no reason to say anything about it _now_. Derek knows that. _Peter_ knows that, he just doesn’t care. Peter lives to stir up shit. 

“No, they usually don’t.” Peter says, with a casual roll of his eyes. “Does that make Derek Hamlet, then? And does that make you Ophelia, I wonder?” 

Derek is watching Stiles with a wary expression, while Stiles’ whole body heats up in mortification. Awesome. Stiles bares his teeth at Peter. Sure, he actually would play the love interest, minus the suicide, but Peter doesn’t need any more encouragement. 

“Uh, no,” he says, flailing aggressively. “If anything I’m Rosencrantz -- or Guildenstern, whichever is the funny one. Scott can be the less funny one.”

“Hey!” Scott protests, from the couch. It’s half-hearted at best, he probably doesn’t even remember reading _Hamlet_. Besides, the point of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is that they’re perfect _together_. The ultimate, existential bromance.

“We’re just here for observation and motivation, that’s it,” Stiles continues, ignoring Scott. “We’re hardly part of the main play.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’,” Peter says, ambling into the kitchen with that infuriating way of his. The insinuation makes Stiles’ insides curl up tightly. “Besides, I wouldn’t think so lowly of yourself. I think you’ve been quite good at being in the spotlight.” The smile he gives to Stiles is sharp and infuriating and then he’s gone, up the stairs. Presumably, to his room to hang upside down from the ceiling and take a nap. Stiles flips him off behind his back unapologetically, which actually makes Derek smile.

“We should kill him again,” Stiles says, offhandedly, as he slings his backpack onto the plush chair across from Danny and Isaac. Isaac lets out a little peel of amused laughter that cuts off in a snort. Derek shrugs before Stiles hop-skips up the stairs to retrieve his laptop from Isaac’s room. He just needs to find out what kind of magic is required to manipulate a werewolf’s perception. Easy peasy, right?

If his dad hasn’t changed the password to the computer at home, he’s totally going to search Jennifer Blake in the police database. Maybe he can bribe Danny to hack into the national database, that would save him so much effort. Doubtful, but Stiles is nothing if not an optimist. 

When he gets downstairs, Derek has taken up the other end of the couch, watching Isaac and Danny work on their project with interest. Scott’s sitting on the floor at the coffee table, textbook spread out, dutifully frowning at his worksheet. 

“What’s that about?” Stiles asks, gesturing to the piles of print-outs and books on the table. He flips the cover of one and discovers it’s a library book, sticker on the corner and everything, he didn’t even know people still -- 

He drops the cover quickly when he sees the cover: _The Transgender Guidebook_. It lands with snap on the table, causing them all to look up at him, varying levels of confusion on their faces; he can feel himself heating up.

“Psychology project,” Danny says, eyeing Stiles. “We’re in the sexuality unit and we had to pick a project topic. Ours is transgender transitioning.” Stiles swallows and nods, meets Scott’s eyes before they both look away quickly. _Obviously_. 

“A-awesome,” Stiles mutters, opening his laptop too aggressively and ineffectively hiding behind it. Danny’s giving him a weird look, calculating, like -- oh god, Stiles really needs to deflect.

“So like, what are you covering? I mean, transvestites, that’s a really broad subject, right?” he holds in his wince, sounding ignorant to his own ears. Bad idea, bad idea, he’s just drawing attention to himself. He hates how he can’t shut the fuck up when needed. The look Danny’s giving him is judgemental, disapproving -- fuck his life, for real.

“Transvestism is different,” Isaac is saying, not looking up from his laptop. The little dimple between his eyes is pinched in a confused frown. “That would be a male-identifying person dressing as a female, not actively wanting to transition into being female.” The look he gives Stiles is thoroughly unimpressed. “I really would have expected you to know about this shit. I thought you knew all about ‘the rainbow’.”

Stiles can practically hear the air quotes.

Danny groans at Isaac, but looks at Stiles, surprised. “You’re gay?”

“What, no, I’m queer. Like, all over the board queer. It’s not the genitals that matter, it’s the heart, or whatever. The fact that they’re _available_ really, I’m embarrassingly easy. Did you miss me dating Jared?” Stiles asks, focusing his attention on his laptop. He types ‘Jennifer Blake’ into the search bar and waits. He has an account with one of those background tracker sites, but he likes finding the free information first: Facebook, Twitter, whatever’s out there and readily available.

“You dated Jared?” Danny asks, eyebrows hitching up. Wow, Stiles isn’t a total monstrosity, he’s a great catch, thank you very much. Sure, Jared was outrageously hot and talented and Stiles _still_ doesn’t see what Jared liked about him… That doesn’t mean Danny has to point it out. “Starbuck barista, hipster artist Jared?” 

“Yeah, it was when the” -- puppies -- “betas got the bite.” Danny makes a skeptical noise, and seriously what the fuck. Stiles glares at him. “He found out I was in a pack and surrounded by werewolves and homicidal, lizard monsters so he bailed.” 

Well, he bailed because Stiles has a vagina, but Stiles isn’t about to tell _Danny_ that. Danny and Derek make equally concerned faces while Isaac just looks amused, like the giant reptile almost killing them was _funny_.

Scott, Scott looks half panicked like maybe Stiles shouldn’t be saying what he’s saying--

“Huh,” is all Danny says, giving Stiles that searching look again. “So you’re the guy that Jared dated before he graduated.” 

It doesn’t really sound like a question, more like a statement, an observation, a realisation -- Stiles makes a strangled noise, eyes cutting to Danny’s raised eyebrow. Isaac makes a little noise of realization in his throat before his mouth drops open and he’s staring at Stiles. 

“No way,” he says, a little breathless and a lot confused. His eyes dance all over Stiles’ face to his chest, then down to his crotch for a minute.

“Oh my god, Jared is such a fucking dick,” he says, vehemently. Stiles _begged_ him not to tell anyone, so of course he didn’t listen. At least Jared didn’t mention Stiles by name, but it doesn’t take a genius. If he told Danny he broke up with a trans guy around the time Jackson’s kanima ass was stirring up drama, then -- well, connect the fucking dots. Stiles is an idiot. But, it’s not like he could deny what they’re assuming, because they haven’t actually said it out loud, so if Stiles says he’s _not_ the trans guy, then he obviously _is_. 

Scott nods vehemently from his position on the floor. Stiles is going to punch him if he knew that Jared said something about dating a trans guy. That’s bro-violation, Scott should have warned Stiles so Stiles could keep his goddamn mouth shut. He would deny dating Jared over and over if it meant not outing him. Now, it’s too late, though. 

“Dude, I thought you dumped him because he wouldn’t bottom for you,” Scott says, thoughtfully, like _that’s_ the issue here. Which, it kind of was, because Stiles is totally a switch (or _would_ be if he could get his hands on some equipment), but Jared is a power top and hasn’t ever been a bottom. It’s all he talks about if you give him the chance. Stiles thinks it’s all just secret posturing, that he’s dying to be dominated, but what does he know? 

“Whoa, you top?” Danny asks, all wide eyes and dimpled grooves so deep that you can still see them when his mouth is slack jawed from surprise. Stiles scowls. 

“Trans guys who top aren’t fucking unicorns,” he says, forgetting that he probably shouldn’t be contributing to a conversation he doesn’t want to have. People always make assumptions, Stiles knows, and he doesn’t necessarily _have_ to get irritated, but it’s not like he volunteered for this conversation, it just happened. “It’s pretty common.”

“ _How_?” Isaac asks, eyes still glued to Stiles’ crotch. 

“Strap-on,” Stiles and Danny say at the same time, arching their eyebrows at each other. 

“By all means,” Stiles says, gesturing to Danny’s everything. “I’m sure you can handle it, you are writing a report on it after all.” He needs to research Jennifer Blake anyway, not talk about sex with a room full of dudes with actual penises. If he wanted to discuss dildos, he would talk to Erica or Lydia about it. 

Derek hasn’t said anything about anything, watching the exchange with a bland expression. Danny doesn’t elaborate. Isaac looks back and forth between Danny and Stiles before rolling his eyes.

“Come on, Stiles,” he says, challenging smirk settling into place. “Help me with my project.”

“Oh, when you put it that way,” Stiles snarks, but it’s sort of a convincing argument. Literally in the process of transitioning, he could answer all their questions. But, still. It’s different when they’re expectantly waiting for him to tell them all about it. Ugh, no. “Are you going to tell the class about strap-ons? How trans people have sex? That’s a little not safe for work, don’t you think?”

Isaac’s shrug is easy going. “It’s part of it, isn’t it? I mean, I wasn’t going to go explicitly in-depth. I’m just curious,” he gestures to the pile of books. “For _research_ , to know what the books are leaving out.” Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“That’s a flimsy excuse.”

“Why not?” Scott asks, poking at Stiles’ hand with his pencil. “You could help them, and then everyone in this room would understand you better. It could help.” Stiles scowls at Scott. This whole traitor mode has go to go. They were all about solidarity. If Lydia was here she would be kicking their asses all across the loft for even asking.

“I’m not doing this,” Stiles says, vehemently, setting his laptop on the coffee table with a _thud_. Scott frowns with a hurt expression, but Stiles seriously cannot.

There’s definitely an importance to dramatic exits that everyone in present company has taken advantage of at least once in their life. Stiles attempts to, he really does. Cheeks red with anger he stands and makes to move away from the circle of curious expressions, but his foot catches on the stupid rug and he goes down near Derek. Derek’s hot hand circles his arm to steady him and Stiles can feel himself heat up more, can feel the eyes of the others on his head.

“I can’t storm away if you’re holding my hand, Derek,” Stiles says, shooting for exasperated, but landing somewhere between ‘shaken’ and ‘anxious’. It makes him angry, his easy vulnerability. It was fine when it was just Derek or just Scott and Erica, but with Danny and Isaac, it’s different. Overwhelming. 

“Next time I’ll just let you fall,” Derek says, but he doesn’t actually let go. “You should stay, though, it’s okay, really.” Stiles closes his eyes and exhales, praying for the strength not to punch Derek in his beautiful face. 

When he turns everyone’s faces are carefully reassuring. Well, Danny and Scott’s are. Isaac looks mildly constipated, but the smirk is gone, so Stiles rolls his eyes like he wasn’t about to be a huge asshole and plops back down into his chair, legs sprawling out. 

He picks up the laptop again, open to the Jennifer Blake Google search page that is yielding exactly _no_ results. They all shuffle and sink into an uncomfortable silence. He’s a second away from caving and asking Danny if he can do anything more until Stiles can get onto his dad’s computer, but Danny’s already looking at him with a curious expression. 

“So, Stiles --”

“No.”

“Stiles --”

“No, we are not discussing my sex life or sex interests or whatever. So, lay off."

Just because he has a vagina, doesn’t mean they get to ask him personal questions. It doesn’t automatically leave him open for interrogation. Not that he’s _shy_ , not at all, he’ll talk about _cock_ and _cunts_ until the cows come home, but it’s the fact that they feel _owed_. He doesn’t owe them any explanation for being trans and hiding that he’s trans. Danny bites his lip, but he nods and drops it. Thank god, they all fucking drop it. 

Stiles sighs, because he actually needs to get somewhere with this Jennifer Blake thing and sitting in brooding silence while everyone is awkward is not the way to accomplish that. 

“Hey, do you have Ms Blake for English?” Stiles asks Danny, after it’s been awhile. Long enough for the tension to seem out of the room just a little bit. 

“Yeah, why?” he asks, eyes wide. He’s probably trying to be extra sincere to make up for being a prying douchebag, Stiles thinks, meanly. Okay, that was a little far, but it’s a huge point of aggravation for him, _obviously_.

“How do you feel about her?” 

“I don’t particularly care,” Danny says, shrugging and going back to his paper. Scott rolls his eyes.

“Stiles, not this again--”

“Do you feel anything weird around her?” Stiles pushes, ignoring Scott. Scott is being manipulated somehow, his opinion is not relevant. Danny, though, Danny is perfect; he’s outside of the pack, not a werewolf, _and_ he has experience with magic. 

“Who’s this?” Derek asks, looking up from his book.

“The new English teacher, she’s subbing for Mr. Mason. She feels like magic to me,” Stiles responds. “Weird, not quite right. Lydia says she reminds her of how Peter was, after.” 

“They’re the only ones who think she’s weird,” Scott says. Stiles glares at him, “I mean, I trust him, but I just don’t see it.” 

“I’ll look into it,” Derek says, frowning and glancing between them. Seriously, if anything Derek should find it weird that Scott isn’t siding with Stiles, they’re practically the same person they think so alike. Scott contradicting him is definitely suspicious behavior. Stiles deliberately chooses not to say anything about her weird compulsion towards werewolves, though.

Betas are one thing, she would have to be an extremely powerful magic user to get an alpha under her lure. He doesn’t want to get Derek into suspicious, burn-the-witch mode if there’s no immediate danger.

“Well, she doesn’t strike me as weird,” Danny says slowly, eyeing Scott and Stiles. “But, you probably have more intuition about that sort of thing, since you were a born magic user. Derek’s opinion might be helpful, since he was a born wolf.” 

“Yes, _thank you_ ,” Stiles says, flailing in Scott’s direction. Scott just shrugs like _whatever_ , just affirming Stiles’ decision to punch him even further. 

 

 

Stiles doesn’t leave until after everyone else does, pretending to be caught up in research. In reality, he’s following Wikipedia links about magic through the Dark Ages and the transformation of shifter magic versus elemental magic. Derek’s been downstairs for awhile, somewhere between Danny leaving with side of guilt to his goodbye and Scott taking Isaac back to Scott’s house with him. 

Stiles shuts down his laptop and sits with it there on his lap with lack of anything better to do. He’s hesitant to leave without finishing their conversation from the other day about the pack up north. Hesitant to leave at all because Derek is different around Stiles when it’s just the two of them and Stiles is greedy for those moments more than anything. 

Derek must be able to sense it because he brings Stiles a cup of tea without being prompted, waiting until Stiles puts down his laptop to hand it to him. It’s disarming to think of Derek in an expensive tea shop, picking out a batch of leaves to try out. This week’s tastes like white tea, with notes of berry and mint. It’s always too subtle for Stiles’ tastes. Most of what Stiles drinks is chemically enhanced, Mountain Dew or Redbull. Unless it’s coffee. Derek probably knows this, because his tea is never any of those things. It’s always light and just sweet enough to not be bitter, but not sweet enough that it’s the only thing you taste. 

Stiles tips his cup towards Derek in thanks, tongue already chasing the flavor of mint. Derek smiles in response, small and secretive. Stiles has always wanted to ask why Derek does this: drinks tea with Stiles, shares space with Stiles. He’s too much of a coward, though, he doesn’t want to ruin the fragile, unspoken agreement. 

“Did you know that blackberries aren’t even berries? Neither are strawberries. The naming of fruits and vegetables is all off. One time I went through 5 PDFs about the origin of produce naming and I _still_ don’t understand it,” Stiles says, for lack of anything better to say. 

“Bananas are berries,” Derek says, and Stiles swoons. This is why he likes Derek.

“Hey, so,” Stiles starts, at the same time Derek says, 

“About the --”

They both grow quiet and look at each other, waiting for the other to start again. Stiles narrows his eyes and gestures to Derek with his shoulder. 

“The other day, about the pack,” Derek says, straightening. “I looked into it. Two of the three that are missing are in town now. The third is dead.” 

Stiles blinks at him. That’s _not_ what he was expecting. He was expecting to unravel Derek’s argument about it not being their business. There were going to be words and maybe shouting and now, without Stiles’ knowledge at all, Derek is surrendering. It’s practically an apology. Stiles swallows. 

“They’re twins, right? We saw them in school, but before that, Lydia had a dream about them,” Stiles says. Derek’s eyes widen. “It’s probably because they were there when everyone died. Unless they’re going to die, then we should probably watch out for them, you know?” 

“I was thinking about extending an invitation into the pack,” Derek says, hands clasping in front of him, like he’s self conscious about the idea. “They would be the first outsiders, but if they’re here, they’re here for a purpose.”

“They haven’t approached you?” Stiles asks, because that’s weird. They’re the only pack in the area. The twins are already omegas, if they don’t proposition the pack their magic will grow so weak they’ll practically be human. The pack bond is the most important force for a werewolf. It solidifies the shifter magic, acts as an anchor. Without it, the shifter magic dwindles. 

“No, I don’t think they plan to.” There’s another shrug, like Derek doesn’t care, but Stiles knows differently. Derek is the only alpha in the area, so they should have seen him about joining the pack unless they were just here temporarily. If they were just passing through they wouldn’t have enrolled in school. Stiles pulls a face, part sympathy, but mostly confusion. 

“Maybe you should let us get a feel for it,” Stiles says. “They could still be mourning. They might feel like joining another pack too soon is disrespectful to their old pack.” Stiles is pulling that out of his ass, but Derek seems to buy it. A thoughtful look passes over his face and he nods slowly. 

There’s nothing else to say about it, so they just sit there and drink their tea in silence. It feels like there’s more to say, but Stiles doesn’t know what, just knows that the tension is snapping between them like a taut rubber band. Every time he looks at Derek, Derek is looking at him. Not that the staring isn’t normal, but it’s somehow _more_. 

“Is there something on my face?” Stiles asks, because the staring. _The staring_. Seriously, unnerving. Derek’s mouth quirks into a smile and he shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything to clarify. Stiles is at the bottom of his cup, damp tea leaves sitting there mournfully. They escaped through the strainer, but ended up with nowhere to go, covered in sugar. It feels like a metaphor for his life. 

Derek stands at the same time Stiles does, shifting his weight to his left foot, rocking towards Stiles. He still looks unsure, tension in the lines of his shoulders. Stiles puts a hand on his arm, planning to ask him what’s up, but Derek’s head snaps up, eyes wide. It’s like Stiles’ arm is a line, Derek uses it to tug Stiles in and bring him close, arms coming around him in a hug. 

_A hug_. 

Stiles tenses automatically, because there’s only been a couple of instances where they lined up from shoulder to toes and most of them were threatening or ended poorly. Derek just holds on, waiting while Stiles recalibrates and finally, _finally_ relaxes, sinking into the warmth of his arms. 

Derek smells like everything good in the world, feels solid and soft at the same time. Stiles leans in, pressing, finally brings his arms around to hug back. Derek’s face is practically buried in Stiles’ neck and Stiles’ pulse is rushing through him so fast he feels like he’s choking on it. He wonders if Derek can feel his heart trying to beat out of him. 

“I’m proud of you,” Derek says, with hot breath. Stiles tenses up again, quick, before he relaxes. There’s something warm sitting in his chest, the heaviness of it surprises him. It feels terrifying and exhilarating all at once. 

“For not having a mental breakdown because everyone knows about my inconvenient body parts?” Stiles asks, because he can’t handle anything somber, especially if it’s Derek Hale breathing against the skin on his neck, sending goosebumps sweeping over his body. 

“They’re not inconvenient,” Derek says, with a laugh, pulling away just enough to press a kiss to Stiles’ temple. Stiles moves back so he can look at Derek, Derek’s eyes. They’re crinkled into crows feet at the corners, a small smile pulling at his mouth. He looks so _soft_ , despite the cut of his jawline and his cheekbones. Something breaks apart and rearranges in Stiles’ chest and he can’t help the way he steps forward and drags his nose along the skin of Derek’s cheek before kissing him. 

 

 

Stiles has kissed Derek twice before. The first time, it smelled like chlorine and felt like desperation. When Stiles had said “an abomination”, there was something on Derek’s face that looked like he self identified with that word and it physically ached in Stiles’ chest. Like for all that ‘the bite is a gift’ bravado, Derek didn’t know if he actually believed it to be true. So, Stiles found him and kissed him and Derek tensed up, grabbed both of Stiles’ arms and pushed him away. 

“How old are you?” he asked, eyes flashing red. Stiles’ heart had gone into overdrive, anxiety and humiliation building up in his throat. 

“17,” Stiles said. It would be true in a month. Derek didn’t call him out on it, just said,

“How old am I?” Stiles glared at him and didn’t answer, already knowing it was a rejection. Derek lifted an eyebrow and Stiles took it as a dismissal, skin burning hot from the shame. 

The second time was Stiles’ birthday, after the crescendo of the kanima, after Scott used Derek to bite Gerard, after his dad asked about the bruises and Lydia. Stiles felt like a ragdoll, didn’t know why he was even in a pack that couldn’t hold itself together. They were falling apart at the seams, ever since Derek bit the betas. Their loyalties were divided. Derek hadn’t even believed Scott and Stiles about Lydia, outright _refused_ to.

Stiles was about to quit, just have it _done with_. He could find a new pack to bind to, maybe Satomi, god knows Malia would love to have him in her pack. They might appreciate him there, take what he had to say seriously. 

Of course, that was when Derek chose to climb in his window and say, “you were right.” Stiles startled, jerking around so he could stare at Derek.

“That must have been so hard for you, admitting that,” Stiles sneered, dragging himself out of his self-pity and turning his anger towards Derek. Derek reacted in kind, voices climbing every so often until Stiles remembered his dad was in the house and did _not_ need to hear him yelling at his alpha. Stiles felt flawed apart by the time Derek pressed him into the wall, a looming threat that Stiles didn’t even flinch from. 

“You are a fuck,” Stiles said, voice low. “You need to believe us, trust us--”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Derek said, voice a sneering. “My entire life has been one misstep after another, you want me to just _trust you_? Scott just went behind my back, Allison turned out to be _exactly what I said she would be_. Do I need to continue, or do you get the point?”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Stiles said, flailing in Derek’s grasp. “I’m here for you, I’m so here for you. Don’t trust us, trust _me_.” Stiles pressed forward, into Derek’s space, kissed him with a bite of anger and false bravado, pushing into him. Derek kissed back, hands sliding down to grab Stiles and bring them together. It didn’t last long. Derek pushed Stiles away, eyes glowing red. 

“You smell like her, like ash and _fuck_ \--” Derek said, with a growl, sending ice through Stiles’ veins. Kate Argent was the only other fire starter in Beacon Hills besides Stiles, Derek couldn’t possibly be talking about anyone else. Derek’s hands squeezed around his arms, once, before he let go. “I can’t, Stiles.” 

 

 

This kiss is nothing like that. It isn’t the result of adrenaline, except for the adrenaline that close proximity to Derek begets in Stiles. It’s just a kiss. Most likely, a misguided kiss, but a kiss nonetheless. Derek’s mouth is malleable under Stiles’, parting and giving and taking easily, without any hurry. Stiles keeps it innocent, a light sweep of lips and tongue, even though he wants to climb into Derek’s body and curl up behind his sternum. 

Derek is _right there_ , he’s always _right there_ , just at the edges of Stiles’ peripheral, lurking, driving him absolutely fucking nuts. But in a good way, in an excited, this-gets-his-magic-revving sort of way. That’s not a euphemism either, being around Derek actually makes his magic respond, coming to the surface of his skin like a sun-warmed cat. Kissing him makes everything lock into place, link together exceptionally.

Derek’s arms tighten around him, squeezing his waist. Their mouths move together and together and together until Derek breaks the kiss and leans his head on Stiles’ shoulder, sighing against his collarbone. Stiles can’t help the way his hand comes up under Derek’s shirt, just a press of skin on skin. 

Head still bent, Derek says, “I can’t, Stiles.” Again. It hangs in the air between them. 

“Why not?” Stiles asks, trying to inject a laugh into his words, maybe, but it just comes out as a croak, voice full of static. Derek draws back, looks him in the eye. Stiles resists the urge to look away. 

“There’s a lot of things I would have to do to be ready for a relationship with you,” he says, like it’s simple. Stiles’ insides are tumbling together, a slip and slide of internal organs. “It’s not as easy as a kiss and a date.” 

“Right,” Stiles says, drawing back, trying to retrieve his heart from where it’s metaphorically clinging to Derek. His nerves are shot to hell, tangled up somewhere at the base of his skull, tingling. “The age thing and the fire thing and the alpha thing. There’s a lot of things.” He’s trying very hard not to sound petulant. He doesn’t know if it’s working. 

“There is,” Derek says, face pained. It’s probably not something he wants to talk about. It’s not something _Stiles_ wants to talk about. Stiles wants to go back to the kissing, but Derek’s face is getting scowly and Stiles is pretty sure they’re never going to get that moment back. 

“No, I get it,” Stiles says. He doesn’t, not really.

“Do you? Every person I’ve loved is dead.” Derek’s jaw clenches tight on whatever words he wants to stay. He breathes through his nose, and out. “It’s hard for me to make connections. It’s hard for me to trust them.” 

Words like that have the staying power of shrapnel, Stiles thinks, as he shrugs.

“Okay, I don’t really get it,” Stiles says. “But I could try. I mean, obviously something in you wants me a little bit, so I’m good with that knowledge, at least for now.” Stiles moves away and grabs his bag. Derek’s just staring at him, watching him leave, as usual. Stiles salutes on his way out the door. “Just, uh, think of me before bed or something.” The wink he tosses at Derek is completely accidental, almost a flirt-reflex, but Stiles thinks it tops everything off nicely. Dramatic exit and all.

That night, Stiles dreams of fucking Derek open with his fingers, slow and deliberate, while Derek just stares at him, cheeks pink from trying to hold back his moans. Stiles wakes up, wet and horny, with his bed magically set on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidental kisses still count as a slow build, right? Right.
> 
> [That welcome mat is real](https://www.google.com/shopping/product/2479171621581551344?q=dog+welcome+mats&biw=1600&bih=789&psj=1&bav=on.2,or.r_qf.&tch=1&ech=1&psi=YoOkVLeGKonVoATpvYCgBA.1420067683652.3&prds=paur:ClkAsKraX-nvdXHN6-tln7q3Jk-tI9ulWZx7TkghcHgKLoMK0JBkbr13Ecbs4CYr0Zck4JYjx29Fg5TdTy2hKr7fa_Kkp0KtyWypm3WgB4ybFUm0Ff5503u52BIZAFPVH73dF66VL905S9B9FK-g65okW0XjFQ&ei=b4OkVIPrJoTZoASUyICoCQ&ved=0COIDEKYrMBU) & it's hilarious.
> 
> THIS CHAPTER ALREADY HAS FANART. Because I showed it to Ray before they beta'd, and they are awesome and drew me part of the first scene. [Check it out on their blog](http://tardisrightsactivist.tumblr.com/post/106601847075/hope-you-dont-mind-alex-but-i-couldnt-sleep)<3


	3. Chapter 3

The scent of flowers is heavy, cloying in his nostrils. He’s sprouting. He blinks, looking down at his arms, the tingling went completely unnoticed. He’s been kicking Isaac’s ass at Mortal Kombat and now there’s flowers everywhere. Scott’s at his desk, his pencil pauses on the paper, head whipping around to glare at the room at large. 

“Oh god, what is that smell?” Scott asks. Stiles is sitting in his bed, surrounded by posies. He doesn’t even bother pausing the game, just stares down at Scott’s bedspread dumbfounded. There’s not a lot he can do with earth magic, but apparently, now, he’s capable of growing flowers out of nothing. 

“I’ve recently acquired a green thumb,” Stiles says, trying to pull his magic back, but he can’t grasp it. He concentrates, feels the flow through his veins, tries to stifle it. It’s hot though, hard like it’s becoming physical. “This is weird.”

“How weird?” asks Isaac. He totally missed that Stiles’ Mileena isn’t doing _anything_ on screen to counter his attacks. “Mild need for concern weird, or ‘oh god, oh god, we’re all going to die’ weird?” 

“Mild need for concern. Probably.” Stiles flexes his fingers, feels the buzzing in them. It’s worse than when he set his pizza on fire, or his bed, or anything else that’s happened, really. “I need Deaton,” he says before he remembers--

“Deatons at a conference,” Isaac and Scott say at the same time, Scott’s voice informative while Isaac’s is irritated, like Stiles deliberately forgot that piece of information.

“Then I need to Skype with Deaton,” Stiles amends, standing and pulling on his jeans from the night before. He brushes his teeth quickly, ignoring his wild behead. “My laptop is at Derek’s, though.” Scott and Isaac look at each other for a long moment, and Stiles knows they’re doing a weird silent communication thing that he doesn’t bother trying to interpret. 

“Use Scott’s,” Isaac says. Stiles narrows his eyes.

“Scott’s doesn’t have the copy of the bestiary, or the countless other supernatural resources that mine does,” Stiles responds, voice suspicious while Isaac’s face is forced nonchalance. Isaac scowls at that, though, which is a way more normal face for him, so Stiles doesn’t call him on it. 

“You said Skype, not Skype plus potential research.”

“With Deaton, it’s always Skype plus potential research. Scott, buddy, remind me to put a copy of my shit on your hard drive.”

“Right, so you can kill my free space, sure,” Scott scoffs, distractedly typing something on his phone before he pulls a shirt on. “How about you invest in an external hard drive?”

“They’re like a billion dollars,” Stiles whines, slipping his wallet and phone into his pocket. “Besides, you should practice your research mojo, it’s severely lacking.” 

“Puh-lease, I’m the brawn not the brains,” Scott says, scooting past him and bounding down the stairs so they can leave. Isaac follows.

“Got that right,” he mutters, under his breath to Stiles. He snickers while Scott squawks in protest. They make their way over to Derek’s quickly, and Stiles can see this is going to be a problem. There’s a trail of foliage behind his Jeep as he drives. 

“This would be hilarious if it didn’t smell like hell,” Isaac comments, and Stiles can’t help but agree. There’s flowers and grass sprouting all over his seat, filling the small space with a too-sweet scent. He rolls down the windows. 

“Dude it’s worse isn’t it?” Scott asks, pulling a daisy from next to Stiles’ shoulder and tucking it behind his ear. Isaac laughs and mimics him. Now they both have daisies and they’re smiling at each other like idiots. 

“Maybe, probably,” Stiles says, grabs a daisy as well, and tucks it behind his ear. Scott fist bumps his hand that’s gripping the steering wheel, like they’re flower bros. “I can’t stop the flowers right now, but no big, right? It’s probably magical puberty or something with an easy fix. I mean, I’ve been a magic wielder my whole life, the chances of me just losing control are zero to none.” He smiles at Scott’s enthusiastic nod.

“Sure, I’m sure Deaton’ll know,” he says, as Stiles parks the Jeep at Derek’s building. They climb up the stairs. Isaac shoots off quickly, but Scott and Stiles following at a slower pace. The door’s open when they get there and Stiles can hear Isaac’s voice inside. It sounds sharp.

“-- texted you!” he’s saying. There’s a shuffle, that sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen. 

“My phone’s upstairs,” Derek grunts. Stiles comes around the corner to see him shirtless, the tense bunch of back muscles facing them. He’s at the stove, pushing around some eggs, and it’s so adorably domestic. He almost misses Scott’s sigh --

“Hey, Ms Blake,” Scott says. Stiles whips around, twisting his neck painfully in surprise. _No way_. Yes way, total yes way. 

Ms Blake is just sitting there looking politely startled, sweet smile on her lips. She has a plate of eggs in front of her and she’s not wearing a bra under _Derek’s_ shirt. Stiles knows it’s Derek’s shirt because it’s forest green and when Derek wears it his eyes are the color of summer leaves. It hangs off her frame loosely and looks cute on her. Stiles thinks he’s going to be sick. 

He hasn’t said anything yet, no acknowledgment of her presence. At this point his staring is just rude, but he can’t make his brain connect. It feels like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, guilt gnawing at him. The tension in the air is palpable, but Stiles still doesn’t say _anything_. 

Derek went to check on her, under Stiles’ suggestion and -- oh _god_. Stiles feels like something inside him is breaking. He’s jealous and _pissed_ and he has no idea what to do so he just stands there like a fucking idiot while his pulse climbs. Derek eyes cut to him, eyebrows hitching up in surprise. Stiles probably stinks of whatever hormone combination contributes to being really fucking pissed off. At Derek, at himself, at Jennifer fucking Blake. 

And, okay, so this could be normal. Derek could have met her and just _fell_ for her, right? That’s a possibility. Except that Derek doesn’t _trust_ people, he doesn’t let people in. Stiles has been trying to get him to open up for the better part of a year and Derek refuses. What are the actual chances of Derek bringing home a quick fuck, cooking her breakfast, and letting her around the pack. Minimal. Maybe Stiles is just jealous. 

The feeling is there though. The dark, ick no-way feeling that weighs heavily in his gut. His dad would say it’s a cop feeling and Stiles knows to follow cop feelings. Only problem is, he doesn’t know what to _do_. He needs proof before he calls Jennifer out on it, he needs to figure out _how_ she’s doing it. He needs to call someone, Lydia maybe, she’s not under Jennifer Blake’s spell he needs to -- 

He inhales and exhales, redirecting the adrenaline rush so that he can use it to get moving, do something, _focus_. Derek’s back turns towards him dismissively. Stiles is so fucking jealous. So jealous that he can practically taste it like bile in his esophagus. The discomfort is about to make him spiral into a panic attack. It’s painful, this whole thing is --

Scott’s hand comes down hard on his shoulder, jerking him out of his trance. His face is carefully blank. It’s sympathy that no one else can see. An underreaction to Stiles’ overreaction. Stiles breathes a little easier, rolling his eyes dismissively. He can totally play this off. 

“Gross,” Stiles says, every inch the petulant teenager. Derek’s back muscles tense at the sound of his voice. It makes Stiles feel vicious. Derek should be tense about this whole fucked up situation. 

“Hey, Deaton, remember?” Scott says, jostling his shoulder until Stiles looks down at the flowers still sprouting around his feet. Ms Blake notices them too and for some reason her smile becomes wider. 

“Having trouble controlling your magic?” she asks, all concerned sincerity. _Suspicious_ sincerity, complete with creepy smiling. Maybe someone who is strong enough to influence the emotions of an alpha and his entire pack can also make their magic user’s energy expand out of control --

Stiles just rolls his eyes at her again, not bothering with an answer, and shoots up the stairs into Isaac’s room. He needs space, he needs to think, he needs a _plan_. Deaton is out of the question, he isn’t even in the area. There’s a tremble to his hands as he texts Lydia.

[9:34]

_Don’t call, the pack is here. I asked Derek to look into Blake and now he’s sleeping with her. With the way the wolves reacted makes me think it wasn’t entirely voluntary on his part. She’s here. She might have something to do with my magic._

From: Big Red

[9:36] _You better be shitting me, Stilinski._

[9:39] _Give me until tomorrow, I’ll see what I can do. I’m going to check out what could be capable of this. This isn’t your fault, Stiles._

The plastic of his phone cracks as he clenches his fist down, she knows him entirely too well. Unfortunately for them both, it _is_ Stiles’ fault. He should have told Derek about the influence she had over the betas, should have researched her more before saying _anything_. He let Derek confront her without any of the facts. They know nothing about her. Sure, he had no idea Derek would be looking into it _so soon_ , but that wasn’t _Derek’s_ fault. Stiles gave him a lead, Derek was just following up.

He stands in the middle of the room just breathing for long moments, letting himself shut down, reboot. He’s the world’s biggest fucking idiot, he led Derek into this situation blindly, he’s beyond useless. Not only does he feel empty, scooped out, exhausted -- he feels completely inadequate because of a fucking English teacher. He’s so weak, thinking about how envious he is when there are obviously more pressing matters to tend to, like how she’s completely controlling 80 percent of his pack. 

Stiles presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, trying to bury everything except for the focus he needs to figure out what Jennifer Blake is all about and _make her pay_. He should probably take an Adderall. Or three. He exhales and then grabs up his laptop from the desk. There’s a creak of wood as the door swings inward. Stiles jumps and turns, half expecting to see -- what? Jennifer about to kidnap him or confront him or -- 

It’s just Scott, looking at him with a concerned expression. He comes into the room completely, closing the door behind him. 

“Dude,” he says, and Stiles just nods because he doesn’t have any words. He’s jealous and angry and --

Stiles doesn’t care that he doesn’t know what she _is_ or what she does, he’s going to figure it out and he’s going to put her the fuck down. He looks at Scott’s naively sympathetic face and feels completely irate. He wants to storm down stairs and demands answers _from her_ , but he knows that’s not the way to do it. He has to plan this out. 

“Hey, I’m going to go home and do this,” Stiles finds himself saying. Fuck calling Deaton, he needs to _do something_. “I don’t want to be overheard.” Scott’s eyebrows raise, but he nods. 

“Yeah, let’s get out of here,” he says with a smile, clapping Stiles on the back. They say goodbye to the room at large as they leave. Derek doesn’t even look at them, just grunts an affirmation with his back to the room. That makes Stiles’ stomach knot unpleasantly. He wants to say _something_ , but doesn’t, just continues to walk out.

 

The minute Deaton gets back into town, Stiles heads over to the clinic. There’s a command rune on the bottom of the door handle that lets him in without a fuss. The general noise of the housed animals kicks up a notch when they recognize him. One of the cats is pressing herself against the front of her cage, fat and orange fur squeezing through the bars, begging to be pet. Stiles trails his fingers against what parts of her he can reach before moving deeper into the clinic, towards Deaton’s office.

He drifts to a stop just outside the door. There’s a gap in the air, like a vacuum. It’s Peter. His shifter magic feels like a void, sucking in the energy around it like it’s greedy for it, can’t get enough. It sums Peter up pretty well, a metaphor for his life. Stiles is curious to see what Peter wants with Deaton. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. Nothing Peter does is _good_. Nothing he’s ever done has been good. 

“Young Mr Stilinski has joined us,” Stiles hears Peter say, before the door is nudged open. Deaton looks at him with his eyebrows raised, but doesn’t comment. Peter tilts his head towards Deaton, in a ‘come in’ gesture. Stiles shrugs easily and goes, but stands across the room from Peter warily. If Peter’s smirk is any indication, he definitely notices.

“I was just talking to Deaton about an emissary for the Hale pack,” Peter says, eyes intent on Stiles’. Stiles matches his stare. A pack’s emissary is usually a druid. Druids are more powerful than standard magic users, able to help the alpha harness the shifter magic and the connection to the pack. They act as advisors to the outside world and the alpha, a go-between. An emissary and a pack alpha tend to have a profound bond, through default. If two people end up sharing magic, it’s hard to avoid.

“Who did you have in mind?” Stiles asks, like he knows any druids. He doesn’t, except Deaton and Morrell, but that’s not the point. He would love to know who Peter thinks is suited for the pack. Peter smirks again, wider.

“You.”

“I’m not a druid,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. Despite the sharp spike of excitement that jolts through him, Stiles knows it’s not possible, he’s just a fire-starter. Deaton looks between the two of them.

“You have sufficient power,” he says, addressing Stiles. “Most magic users aren’t capable of that level of power, but come close. With the proper training, you would be able harness the shifter power as well as your own. You may even be able to do something with Miss Martin’s powers.”

Stiles blinks, looking between Deaton and Peter. That has to be a joke. Sure, he has more power than most magic users, but all he’s gotten out of that is a pack and several strict lessons in control that made him seriously consider getting his power stripped and just being done with it. Deaton’s initial impression of Stiles’ magic was that it was too wild and too overwhelming for Stiles to be able to control in large amounts.

“Stiles is not suited to be the Hale emissary, though,” Deaton says, addressing Peter. Stiles is simultaneously disappointed and relieved. Disappointed that he can’t be Derek’s emissary and relieved that an idea of Peter’s gets shot down immediately. “Derek and Stiles are fundamentally incompatible where their magic is concerned.”

That surprises Stiles, making his insides tumble together indecisively. With all the -- tension, chemistry, whatever -- Stiles thought that would be the one area that they would excel at. Peter seems to agree, mouth widening into a vicious smile.

“Oh, they seem compatible enough,” he sneers. Deaton levels him with another hard look, jaw tightening.

“They aren’t,” he says, with an air of finality that has Peter shrugging and smiling like a threat before striding out the door. Stiles watches him go, wondering what just happened. “There’s something going on with him, Stiles. You should watch him carefully.”

“Yeah, no duh, it’s Peter,” Stiles says. Anyone with half a brain could see that in the way he eyes people like they’re pawns, calculating the most useful role for them. Stiles could see the benefit of planning people’s moves out ahead of time, but from Peter it was all the more deplorable. “You really don’t think I could be an emissary?”

“I said you couldn’t be the Hale emissary, Stiles,” Deaton says, patient face firmly in place. Stiles is the reason Deaton even _has_ a patient face. “I wasn’t lying about the compatibility aspect. Despite whatever you might feel, your magic is too contradictory. There are others who surround you that would be a better fit, though none of them are your alpha.”

Stiles squints at him, because he’s not entirely sure what Deaton meant by any of that. Besides the fact that he knows that Stiles has the hots for Derek. He’s really not surprised by that. Whatever.

“Why are you here, Stiles?” Deaton asks, when Stiles has apparently taken too long to reply. Stiles checks the door. There’s no sign of Peter lurking, but Peter is a pro-lurker, so he can’t be too careful. Tingles chase down his forearms as he summons his air magic, weaving it tightly around them keep the sound in. Deaton’s eyebrows go up.

“Dude, don’t judge, just, the pack thing isn’t working so great anymore to anchor my magic,” Stiles says, with a shrug like it doesn’t matter even though it really, _really_ does. His heart is beating around his head and chest while Deaton just stares at him.

“I assure you, Stiles --”

“It’s not! I keep slipping, I didn’t even lose control when my _mom died_ and now it’s like I don’t even have a monecure of it. I’m setting fire to stuff, it’s bad.”

Deaton frowns at him, catches his hand mid-gesticulation and pulls his palm towards him with a crinkle between his brows. He stares at Stiles’ palm for a few minutes, occasionally lifting a finger to swipe at the air above Stiles’ hand, like he’s moving something out of the way. Stiles can feel energy move and rotate in his palm and wrist, tweaking with every adjustment Deaton makes.

“Your bond is incredibly strong, stronger than it has been,” he says, frown deepening. “I’ve only ever seen this strength in an alpha.”

“Alpha?” Stiles says, faintly. He’s not a wolf, he doesn’t _want_ to be a wolf. “Wait, tell me this isn’t some messed up mating thing and I’m like the second half of a couple, please.” Stiles has to actively concentrate on not yanking his palm away from Deaton and hiding it. Deaton snorts out a small laugh.

“Werewolves don’t have mates,” Deaton says, which makes Stiles relieved and disappointed all at the same time. Which is _stupid_. It’s not like he _wants_ to be Derek’s mate. That’s ridiculous. Deaton gives him a knowing look.

“Magic users can become alphas if the situation is appropriate. In your case, it’s not. You have an alpha and a second in the pack you’re currently bound to. Your magic is reacting poorly. Perhaps to stress,” Deaton’s eyebrows go up in a question. Stiles shrugs his shoulders.

“Yeah, I mean, everyone’s finding out about my thing,” he gestures loosely to his crotch and doesn’t say _or lack there of_ , even though he’s tempted to. “That’s a for sure stressor.”

Deaton nods, moving away and standing in front of the blank wall in the room, clearing the air to reveal a cabinet of magical supplies. He grabs out jars of herbs, a brush, mortar and pestle. He crushes dried flowers and leaves with the pestle, adding a little water, to make a thick paste the color of henna. It’s a bonding agent, used to seal magic in a body so that it doesn’t get out of control.

Most magic users can be bound and have no problem. Once applied to the skin, the marks are permanent until removed. Stiles knows his dad has one on the bottom of his foot, there’s one on the curve of Allison’s shoulder. It stinks like skunky smell of weed when Deaton lights it on fire, simmering in the mortar and turning dark blue, then black.

He had a bond tattoo once, on back of his calf, but it didn’t work that well. Nothing worked well, until the pack. And now not even that was working.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Stiles asks, watching Deaton take the temperature of the mixture, heating and cooling when he deems it appropriate. Deaton doesn’t look at him.

“There are other options to dispel the energy. It’s possible to cast some of it off into a sacred object or object of power. Sometimes you can give the power away to someone or something organic, depending on how much is in you,” Deaton straightens and takes the brush, making a few marks on the table to test out the consistency.

“So, I could just give it to a teddy bear and be done with it?” Stiles asks, dubiously. Deaton’s eyebrows raise in amusement.

“Maybe if you wanted the teddy bear to walk and talk and eventually manifest its own conscious,” he says. “That’s a dangerous situation. The magic usually becomes sentient in those situations. The object or organism has to already possess magical properties to syphon excess correctly.” Stiles makes a face and Deaton nods again, before saying, “take your shirt off.”

“What?” he asks, voice going high and concerned. “Just put it on my legs again! Or my forearms, how about my forearms, that’s good.” Stiles holds his arms out at Deaton, terror curling in his chest.

“Your magic is too strong, I need to bind you at your median,” Deaton says, patiently, eyes back on the mortar and pestle.

“I’ll bind you at your median,” Stiles grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. There’s no way he’s taking his shirt off and lying down on that cold ass, metal table. Deaton gives him an exasperated glare before averting his gaze once again.

Stiles turns and strips down, trying to ignore the anxiety churning in his stomach. When his shirt is off, he pulls his flannel on again, leaving it unbuttoned. It allows him to peel his binder off, but the sides hang down and cover his tits. Stiles takes a deep breath, trying to school his heart beat into something that doesn’t resemble a stampede of wildebeest. The tingling in his fingers indicates that a panic attack isn’t far off if he doesn’t get it under control.

Deaton’s back is still to him, giving him the illusion of privacy. Stiles gets up on the table gingerly, lying down and making sure the sides of his flannel are covering the inconvenient lumps of fat on his chest. Deaton might know that they’re there, but he doesn’t need to see Stiles’ tits. _No one_ needs to see Stiles’ tits.

The first stroke of the brush on his abdomen makes Stiles’ muscle jump. He breathes in and out repeatedly, trying to lie still. It’s a task no matter what the situation, but he feels like he’s burning by the time Deaton is half way up his torso, skin crawling with ants. The mixture is hot on his skin, threading its way through his magic, pulling tight the further along Deaton goes. He’s can feel it at the core of him.

He tries to focus on that instead of the way his body is making him feel vaguely sick, like a pinned butterfly, on display, even though his flannel is still covering most of his upper body. There’s no way he can focus on anything other than the burn of embarrassment that he’s getting from Deaton just being in his personal space when he’s not wearing a binder, though. He’s trying to breathe against the clench of his chest, but the way his magic is tightening behind his sternum his tripling his chances for a panic attack.

Deaton turns away when he’s done drawing runes up the middle of Stiles’ body and Stiles’ breath shoots out of him like a rocket. His stomach cramps with anxiety and all Stiles can do is turn on his side and curl into fetal position while his hands and feet go numb and his breath shortens out.

It’s not really a panic attack, but it’s close enough to one that Stiles has to take a few minutes to steady himself, head swimming from lack of oxygen. He sits up, making sure his flannel is still in place, unclenching his muscles as he goes. Deaton’s still not looking at him, but his shoulders are tensed.

“Alright?” he asks, after Stiles is fully upright.

“Yeah, no big,” Stiles says, tipping his head up to the ceiling. There’s always a tightness behind his eyes post-panic. “Just can’t wait to _never do this again_.” Stiles turns, stripping off his flannel as he goes and lies face down, putting his shirt under him because the metal table is _cold_ and Stiles doesn’t need to know _how cold_.

It’s better this time. Stiles’ boobs are squished under him, hidden. He can better concentrate on how each mark on his skin makes his core wind tighter and tighter together, the way the brush leaves a tingle in its wake. It makes him have to actively concentrate in order to feel around for his magic. Usually, it’s just there under the surface of his skin, but the binding makes him have to dive into himself and find the source.

It makes him feel a little suffocate and a lot vulnerable, but it’ll be worth it when he can actually control himself.

 

He feels almost empty with his magic bound so tightly. It’s weird, how active his magic was, the way it contrasts heavily to the way that he feels now. He doesn’t like how he has to reach for it, coax it out of him slowly, will it into existence. Only a little at a time, too, so that he doesn’t scorch his bounds away and unleash too much magic at once again. Learning the control is exhausting and irritating.

It’s probably not the best idea to be flinging fireballs at trees in the woods, but there’s not really any other place for him to practice his magic. His room doesn’t allow for the kind of flexing that he needs to do. Projectile range testing is just as important as manifestation itself.

Of course, when in the woods --

The crunch of leaves alerts him to the other people entering the clearing. He whips around to see Allison and Isaac coming out of the trees slowly, almost cautiously. Allison visibly straightens when he spots her, chin tilting up defiantly.

“Hey,” she says, hand curling at her side, impulsively. There’s a compact bow strapped to her back, quiver loosely thrown over her shoulder. Isaac doesn’t have any weapons, just an awkward expression and hunched shoulders. _Interesting_.

“Hey, uh, target practice?” he asks, even though he knows the answer is yes. He’s honestly surprised, he expected her to start using a different area for training. Apparently, since most of the pack has forgiven her, she’s back to the old haunts. Not that it matters anymore. The pack mostly trains at the abandoned car station now that Derek has the loft, if they train at all. Derek’s desire to throw them together and let them rip each other apart seems to be lessening these days.

Allison nods, shifting her weight.

“I didn’t think anyone was going to be here,” she says, lying her quiver on the ground. Stiles can feel the magic in the air pull towards her like a vacuum while she calibrates it. He doesn’t know if it’s just him, or if everyone can see it, but the air buffers around the shaft of her arrow like a slipstream, readying for launch. When Allison lets go, the air magic guides the arrow into the tree with a mighty _thwap_.

“Me either,” Stiles says, honestly, setting her arrow on fire just because he can. It burns impossibly hot so that one second its wood and the next its ash. Allison smiles goodnaturedly at him.

“You don’t usually need target practice,” she says, a amicable question, but Stiles is too acutely aware of Isaac’s presence to tell her even a portion of the truth. He shrugs, shoulders jumping up quickly and then relaxing.

“Just messing around, really,” Stiles says, moving out of the middle of the clearing so that she can have space to take aim at the biggest tree there. She smiles again in appreciation. Isaac pulls a paper target from out of his pants and sticks it to the tree, no problem. Stiles stares at him.

“So, what’s up, you guys just hanging out?” Stiles asks, eyes darting between them. Allison and Isaac both look at each other before looking at him. Isaac’s face contorts into something Stiles can’t quite get a read on.

“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. And, of course they’re not going to say anything to him, because he’s Scott’s best friend. He’d swear himself to secrecy, but it would be a lie. Scott is going to find out about this pretty much the second Stiles is out of here.

Stiles lets it go, he can’t afford to push Isaac and Allison away right now. There’s too many variables surrounding them, the pack and its allies need to have a semblance of cohesion at the very least. The air isn’t tense, so he sits back on his heels and watches Allison loose arrows for a minute. Her air magic curls around them, caressing, before she lets go and drives them into the target. She always hits the bullseye. It’s boring.

“What else can you do with your magic?” Stiles asks, leaning forward. There’s different degrees of capabilities. His dad, for instance, has the smallest amount of earth magic at his disposal. His grasp on other elements is nonexistent. Allison cocks her head and stares at him, launches the arrow that’s in place. She hits the target without even looking. Even if it’s off to the left of the bullseye, it’s still better than Stiles can do. Show off.

“I’ve got a pretty good handle on fire magic. No water, it’s too tricky, but I can work some earth magic if I concentrate,” she says, biting her lip. Stiles nods, gesturing with his chin. She frowns, but slots an arrow in place.

“I was just thinking,” Stiles says, flicking his finger out at her, feeling his magic make its way down his forearms. A small column of flame snakes around the shaft, setting it aflame. Allison watches it curl around the arrowhead, making the metal turn bright orange. “Incorporate your magic, maybe.”

Allison’s grin is huge, dimples prominent. Even Isaac is looking interested, eyebrows raised. Allison lets the arrow fly and it hits the bullseye, fire spreading to devour the paper. She coos and starts sparking up on her own, trying to manipulate the fire around the arrow. It’s giving Stiles so many ideas. Obsidian-encased arrows, ice arrows that freeze things when they impact.

He’s trying to work out the mechanics of it when Isaac comes to loom in his space. Stiles hitches his eyebrows up at Isaac’s deliberate proximity. Isaac shifts his weight nervously.

“Don’t say anything to Scott yet,” he says. Or, maybe asks, Stiles isn’t sure. It’s not like Stiles _has_ to tell Scott, but them asking him not to tell Scott is suspicious. Well, if Stiles didn’t have confirmation that something was going on, now he does.

“What makes you think he doesn’t already know?” Stiles asks, bluffing. Isaac blinks at him, face going comically slack. It’s a possibility that Scott _does_ know. Scent would be a big indicator. That and the fact that Isaac is constantly absent from the loft. Usually, that would mean he’s with Scott, but lately that’s been less true. Stiles squints at Isaac, Isaac squints back.

“This is really great, Stiles,” Allison gushes, obliviously. It breaks the moment between them. Stiles nods and goes over, trying out more magic on her arrows. Water is a bust, ice is better. Stiles doesn’t have enough experience with earth magic to manipulate earth into obsidian quite yet, but he could get it if he practices.

As weirdly nice as it is to catch up with Allison and Isaac, it gets awkward. They don’t say much, probably afraid that Stiles will relay every part of their conversation to Scott, so Stiles bows out of the pseudo-practice that they’re having and decides to go straight to Derek’s. He might be alone, eating ice cream in his briefs or something. Stiles has to save him from his own horribly adorable life choices because no one else will.

The loft is unlocked when he gets there, which means there’s a visiting pack member and Derek isn’t alone. Not that that makes Stiles feel disappointed at all. Not that he wants to monopolize all of Derek’s free time, especially when he’s dating someone. Okay, that’s definitely a lie, but he can’t help it. Private Derek smiles are addictive, he’s addicted. He needs rehab and an intervention, or just to finally climb the man like a sturdy tree and ride his dick into the sunset. _Not_ that he’ll manage that when Derek has a girlfriend.

Stiles jerks himself out of his own thoughts, flailing. He doesn’t need to go anywhere that leads to thinking about Derek’s dick. _Especially_ when he has a girlfriend. He probably already smells like arousal, but he figures that’s a given since he’s on T and, you know, a _teenager_. Whatever. The loft door opens, Lydia and Scott are in the living room, arguing with Derek about something, shoulders squared off. Lydia lights up when he drops his bag on the table.

“Oh thank god, he’ll listen to you,” she says, exhaling heavily. She arches her eyebrows and tips her head towards Derek, who looks tense and frustrated, arms crossed over his chest. He turns his glare on Stiles when Lydia says, “please, _tell him_.”

“Tell him what?” Stiles asks, moving closer. Even Scott looks on edge. Of course, if it’s an argument between him and Derek, it’s really bound to happen sooner rather than later. “Odds are you should listen to Lydia, but that’s not my official advice until you tell me what you’re talking about.”

“The twins,” Lydia says, exasperated, like Stiles should have been able to psychically glean that information from them already. Stiles makes a face at her.

“I already told him we would get a feel for them before there were any invitations of any kind,” Stiles says. “Unless they already asked?” Lydia shakes her head. “Then, drop it. We should get to know them a little bit first.”

“Right, and meanwhile, I’ll just ignore the crazy dreams I keep having about them,” Lydia snaps, angrily. “Their emissary is the third person who was missing. Do you know how I know that? When Aiden touched my arm, I heard _voices_ that told me about it, _all day_.”

“Voices --”

“ _Voices_ , Stilinski. Oh, and last night I woke up at a giant tree stump in the middle of nowhere in my pajamas. Sound like something that’s happened before?” Replace tree stump with Hale house and, yeah. She sounds angry, but Stiles can tell that she’s scared, voice shaking the smallest amount. Stiles gets it, especially considering the last time she went sleepwalking through the woods.

“Sounds like you should sleep at my house for a little while,” Stiles says, taking her by the shoulder and pushing her onto the couch. She goes easily. He’s not going to leave her alone to deal with this like she had to deal with the Peter thing. Not going to happen. Derek looks between them, frown on his face.

“Seriously, just give me a day with the twins,” Stiles says, trying to placate them both. There’s a chance Derek could ruin this if he’s too aggressive. With outsiders, he tends to come off as hostile and distrusting. Which, he _is_ , so. “I’ll scope it out and report back. Lydia can stay with me until that happens. Good?”

It takes a moment, but eventually everyone nods at him while exchanging shifty glances. No one says anything more, but the tension doesn’t bleed out of the room. Scott’s eyebrows shoot up, head cocking to the side. It takes a minute, but Scott eventually says,

“Why do you smell like Allison?” Fuck.

“I was in the woods, practicing some stuff, y’know, stuff, and she was there, with her arrows and --”

“Isaac?” Scott asks, voice pitching low and sad. Stiles just wants to squish his face when he looks sad because it’s heartbreaking. Stiles nods slowly, because he refuses to lie to Scott about it. Scott sighs, all put upon and full of resigned angst. “They’ve been hanging out.”

“Gross, dude, I knew you would be able to tell. Isaac was all ‘don’t tell Scott’ and I was like ‘he probably knows’ and then he ignored me because he knew I was right.”

“He told you not to tell me?” Scott asks, looking betrayed. Okay, Stiles probably shouldn’t have said that, but maybe it’s not _so bad_. Scott already knew and him and Isaac are still hanging out so, maybe not all hope is lost. Of course, if Allison dates Isaac and then starts hanging out with the pack again -- Stiles looks at Derek, who’s just staring at Scott, frowning.

“Do you really want to be with her anyway?” Stiles asks Scott, because he’s _dying_ to know. “I get that she’s the love of your life _right now_ , but she tried to kill the majority of your _pack_. I’m pretty sure if you hadn’t have gotten into her pants before Derek clawed her mom all up, she probably would have tried to kill you too.”

Derek tenses at the mention of Victoria, but he doesn’t say anything. Whatever, Stiles has no sympathy for his girlfriend-having ass. Scott bites his lip, like he doesn’t want to answer.

“What do you think?” Stiles asks Derek. Scott shoots him an incredulous look, but Stiles ignores it. If Scott won’t share his opinion, then Stiles will get another person to. “I mean, she’s shot you plenty of times, but she said she’s mostly been forgiven by the pack. What if her and Isaac date? Sorry, Scott.” Scott just shrugs, like he’s already accepted his fate, which Stiles counts as progress, even if he’s not quite convinced.

“Isaac has his own life, he can make horrible choices just like the rest of us,” Derek says. Scott is the one to flail his arms at Derek in protest, a gesture he definitely got from Stiles.

“Dude, seriously? You gave me _so much shit_ for dating her when I first turned, and now that she’s proven that she’s capable of all the things you warned me of, you’re going to back off?”

Derek rolls his eyes at Scott’s squawking, but Scott has a point, a _hugely_ irrefutable point.

“Isaac isn’t as naive as you were,” he responds, rocking on his toes. He shoves his hands in his pockets, as if he’s uncomfortable talking about his beta’s lives. “You never thought Allison would be like that, even after you found out she was a hunter. Isaac _knows_ she’s like that. If you kept dating her, you would continue to think she wouldn’t act against your personal interests because you think she’s perfect and perfection means goodness to you. 

“Allison is not perfect,” he continues, shrugging, “nor is she entirely good. Isaac is already wary of people because of his past, he’ll be cautious of her and her intentions better than you ever would be.” Scott blinks at Derek, looking dumbstruck. Stiles is sure his face is expressing something similar: awe, total and complete _awe_.

“That was a really good character analysis coming from the dude who has to seriously work on his own emotional bullshit,” Stiles says, deliberately mean. Derek makes a face that means he’s offended, but he doesn’t say anything. Lydia giggles, trying to cover it with a cough. Stiles jostles their shoulders together. 

“Well, now that _that’s_ settled,” he says, waggling his fingers. “Help me come up with a plan for the twins. Actually, don’t. Do you have ice cream, Derek?”

 

Stiles has a plan. It’s a pretty good plan, if he says so himself. Which, he does, of course. He’s the guy with the plan. He has to figure out why the twins are in Beacon Hills, but not actively courting the pack. He needs to find out why their emissary is dead. He needs to find out why Lydia keeps trying to go to the tree stump in the middle of the woods. Last night, she walked all the way down the street before Stiles realized she was missing. Not his proudest moment, _but_.

Whatever. None of it makes sense. There’s a twist of _something_ in his gut that suggests Jennifer Blake has something to do with it, but he needs more evidence. Something besides just a feeling. He wants to make the connection so badly it’s nearly palpable, but he can’t see the big picture. _Yet_. He’ll get there, he knows, and then he’ll take out her boyfriend-stealing ass -- 

Anyway, twins, plan, he’s got this.

It’s easy to spot the differences between them if you pay attention. Besides the fact that Ethan is gay and has the hots for Danny, he’s also the more approachable one. His voice isn’t quite as loud, his strut not quite as strut-y. Stiles figures they’re probably pretty sick of people just referring to them as “the twins”, so knowing how to distinguish them is the easiest way to get into at least one of their good graces.

Ethan is watching Danny during lacrosse practice, which is just _too perfect_ to pass up, so Stiles pitches sideways and complains loudly about a charlie horse in his thigh, clenching the muscle and groaning.

“ _What_ are you hemming and hawing about, Bilinski?” Finstock snaps, coming over with a trot that, in Stiles’ opinion, takes too long. He’s fake _injured_ damnit, it could be an emergency. It’s _not_ , but it could be.

“Cramp, sir, horrible cramp in my leg,” he squints up at Finstock, mouth pulled to the side in what he hopes is pain. Coach throws his hands up in exasperation and points to the bleachers where Ethan is sitting. Stiles absolutely does not throw his hands up in victory, but it’s a close call.

Ethan looks a little bit amused as Stile fake-limps over to him, throwing himself onto the bench above Ethan far more casually than he would be able to with a severe leg cramp. Whatever, Coach bought it. Stiles flops his arms out, looking down at Ethan. Ethan who’s biting his lip and looking at Stiles, trying to hide a smile.

“I have questions for you,” Stiles starts, because he’s not going to beat around the bush. Wouldn’t know _how_ to, he’s not good at small talk. There’s no way he could ease into a conversation like this one gracefully. There’s not much he _can_ do gracefully, so he just plays to his strengths. Interrogation is totally one of those strengths. _Subtle_ interrogation.

“I’m here for Danny,” Ethan says, smirk widening. Stiles just stares at him. He _knows_ Ethan’s here for Danny, it’s obvious by the way he’s completely mooning, why -- Oh, _oh._

“I’m not --”

“Not that you’re not my type,” Ethan says, with a cute little smile. “Even with the--” His eyes flick down to Stiles’ chest and _what is he implying_.

“Oh my god, am I wearing a _sign_? How do you _know_ these things? Wait, did Danny tell you? I’ll kick his ass. _Wait_ , did you say I’m your _type_?” Someone is attracted to Stiles? That’s like a 1 in 200 occurrence, if _ever_. Okay, maybe that’s an over exaggeration, but maybe not, it’s not like there’s a line to date him. He’s still the weird magic kid in a weird wolf pack. Ethan laughs, genuine and amused.

“Your scent,” Ethan clarifies. “You smell like hormones. There was a female-to-male in my--” Ethan’s face closes off really fast, and Stiles is guessing he was going to mention his pack, the way his eyes get dark and sad. It’s an opening, so Stiles takes it.

“Pack, right? Up north?” he tries to be gentle, knowing he’s not exactly the most sympathetic person ever to grace the planet. The lucky thing is, Ethan doesn’t know this, so his mouth just slides down into a frown.

“Yeah. I -- Danny said you were the Sheriff’s son.”

“Yeah. I’m not trying to pry, I promise. I’m not a cop, y’know,” Stiles says. Stiles smiles and grasps Ethan’s shoulders, just a quick squeeze, establishing touch. Psychologically, touch makes you a trustworthy person. Maybe that’s why Stiles gets away with being an asshole as much as he does, because he’s super tactile. That counters it somehow.

“No, I know, I just don’t want to talk about it, you know?” Ethan says. Stiles can see the loss etched in his frown, the parentheses around his mouth that stand out. This might be the long game, Stiles can deal with the long game.

“No, that’s totally cool, I wasn’t trying to get you to spill. I’m just nosy, feel free to ignore me. We can totally go back to how you find me attractive,” Stiles says, quickly. He doesn’t want Ethan to ignore him, so he isn’t going to push. He needs to appear approachable, which shouldn’t be hard because he totally _is_ approachable. Ethan’s smile doesn’t waver, he laughs again.

“You don’t have to pretend to flirt with me, I can already smell that you’re taken,” Ethan says, which makes Stiles frown. Ethan notices, cocking his head to the side. “You’re not?”

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p’. He makes a show of smelling himself. “Do I smell like someone else? ‘Cause it’s just little old me.” And his hand. _Both_ of his hands, actually.

“Oh, sorry, I thought -- Nevermind,” Ethan says, with an embarrassed look. Stiles straightens, curious.

“Well, now you _have to_ tell me.”

“You smell like you’re in love,” Ethan says, with an easy shrug of his shoulders. Stiles doesn’t answer, just stares at him with his mouth hanging open. That has a _smell_? Ethan bites his lip, frowning. “It’s like a summer day, sweet and crisp. It’s hard to explain. You’re not, though?”

“I didn’t think I was,” Stiles says, genuinely, but when his mind immediately jumps to Derek and how Derek looks and how Derek is and how he smells. Fuck, he thinks he could be. It hits him in the chest like a dead weight. His stomach reels, like he’s falling off the edge of a cliff. Ethan looks surprised, then sympathetic.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean -- I thought you knew. It’s weird not to know.”

“I’m the king of repressing my feelings,” Stiles says. Then, thinks about Derek again. “Maybe, the prince of repressed feelings actually.” This makes Derek sleeping with Jennifer Blake just about a thousand times worse. Ethan makes another sympathetic face.

“We can go back to talking about my pack, if you want to,” he says, easily. Stiles laughs at the deflection.

“We don’t have to,” Stiles reminds him. He’s getting whiplash from how fast they’re changing topics. This is the best topic, though. Way better than whether or not he smells like he’s in love. “I want to ask. I mean, you probably know, I’m part of the local pack.” Ethan nods.

“Hale pack, right?” he asks. He’s not immediately shying away from the topic, so Stiles figure it’s safe to try and talk about it. He checks the field to make sure everyone is still occupied.

“Yeah. We’re curious as to why you haven’t approached us. I said it was because your pack, you’re taking your time, but,” Stiles lets it hang there and shrugs.

“We don’t have an interest in the Hale pack,” Ethan says, eyes flicking to the field, where Scott and Danny are playing. “Your alpha… It’s not a good fit. Maybe if it was someone like Scott,” Ethan shrugs, lines of his shoulder more tense than they were before. “We heard about how Derek Hale is with his pack.”

Stiles stares at Ethan until Ethan squirms uncomfortably.

“He just seems too aggressive. Aiden and I came from a bad pack, we don’t want to go into another bad pack.”

And, shit, Stiles doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s never thought that their pack is _bad_ , but he can see it. The way that they’re disjointed, the way they don’t trust each other. Stiles is frequently the go-between. Just like now. If Derek was better at _interpersonal communication_ , he could be the one talking to Ethan, but he’s not, so it’s better that Stiles handles it. Stiles exhales, the realization weighing heavily in his gut.

“There’s not much he can do,” Stiles says, truthfully. He isn’t going to try and glorify his pack to Ethan, or even defend it. If the supernatural community knows even the most basic summary of what has happened since Peter killed Laura, there’s probably no hope in salvaging Derek’s reputation anyway. He still feels like a traitor for thinking it.

“He wasn’t supposed to be an alpha,” Ethan says, with a shrug and a smile that’s probably supposed to reassure Stiles that he doesn’t mean any offense. “He would be a powerful second. With his training -- He was meant for other things.” Stiles doesn’t know about Derek’s training, but he knows Derek wasn’t ever mean to be an alpha.

“We’re working on it,” Stiles says, with a smile that feels nearly fake. Ethan nods again before squirming and looking at Stiles hesitantly. 

“Look, just be careful? If you’re looking into what happened to our pack --” Ethan’s eyes dart around the field nervously for a minute. “There’s this pack -- A pack of alphas. At least, they were trying to be, but they didn’t have a strong enough anchor.” Ethan’s eyes get this far away look, remembering. “There was this druid that ended up in our area, just before our pack -- She didn’t end up joining them, she killed two alphas before she killed our emissary. She was really powerful.”

Stiles stares at Ethan, not knowing what to make of the story. He seems uncomfortable now, fidgeting in his seat, eyes intent on the field where Danny and Jackson are passing the ball back and forth. 

“We don’t know if she followed us here or not, but she’s probably shifted into something normal. Before, before she killed Alice. Her face was like something I hadn’t ever seen, clawed up and grotesque.” Ethan shivers, looking at his feet. “The whole thing was really fucked up.”

Stiles’ stomach churns anxiously, but he claps a hand on Ethan’s shoulder anyway.

“Dude, this is Beacon Hills, trust me when I say I know fucked up,” he says, not really reassuring, but Ethan doesn’t call him out on it. 

That seems like something else to look into. A druid with a vendetta and the power of multiple alphas. Stiles rolls it around in his brain for the rest of practice, watching the team run back and forth across the field. Would a druid need a pack like a shifter would? Or could they be their own anchor because of the elemental magic? How stable would that be? Jennifer _could_ be the druid. A druid is powerful enough to keep an entire pack under her control. 

If that’s what’s going on, then there’s more to her game than just having a pack of werewolves under her control. She wants them for something, they would be the means to an end. What end? Stiles has no idea, but he could try and find out. Book, the bestiary, anything. Stiles leaves practice early and ends up running into Erica in the halls. She looks worried, mouth pulled into a tight line. Stiles reels her in, hands on her arms.

“What’s up?” he asks, quickly, going into panic mode. That look is usually reserved for when things are _wrong_. Kanima wrong, Gerard wrong, getting kidnapped and electrocuted wrong. She rolls her eyes at him, which makes him calm down instantly. 

“Nothing, it’s weird that Derek is dating your English teacher, right?” Erica asks. Stiles doesn’t get it for a second, how could she know? And, then, Derek and Jennifer come around the corner, hands linked. They’re both in leather and look sharply beautiful together. Stiles’ inside tumble together harshly, churning. Erica stills beside him, grabbing him around the wrist and squeezes. Stiles would love to know what his scent is doing, how the wolves are getting a read on him. Derek’s smile falters, looks at where Erica has threaded her fingers through Stiles’. 

“Hey,” Stiles grits out, unwilling to be impolite. He doesn’t want Jennifer to get suspicious. She has the same vapid, love-struck smile that Stiles saw on her face when they were in the loft. Jealousy makes his head hurt. Derek face looks open and vulnerable, which Stiles doesn’t _get_. There’s no reason for Derek to look like that, no reason for him to direct that hurt look at _Stiles_.

"Hey, Stiles,” Jennifer says, but she’s looking at Erica with a calculating expression that Stiles can’t even begin to understand. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, uh, Erica, beta of the Hale pack,” Stiles says, gesturing at Erica. Jennifer puts her hand out politely, but Erica doesn’t budge. Her grip on Stiles’ hand gets tighter. “Uh, she had a cold, you probably shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t know werewolves got colds,” Jennifer says, easily. She’s not stupid, they’re totally suspicious. 

“They don’t,” Stiles says, shrugging nonchalantly. Erica still doesn’t say anything, but Stiles’s got this. “Magical cold, I was practicing on her.” Stiles wiggles his fingers at her. Derek’s eyes narrow at the lie, but he doesn’t say anything. Which is good. It would probably break some sort of pack code if he called Stiles out on it in front of someone. “Don’t you ever get the feeling of being blocked up and you need to do a little magic on someone to get it flowing?”

“Not entirely,” Jennifer answers, laughing. Stiles hates the sound. “I’m not that powerful.” Stiles just nods at her, staring, trying to get a read on her. She looks back at him, doesn’t waiver. For all of her smiles and small talk, there’s something hardened in her eyes. 

“You guys should get out of here,” Derek says, either completely oblivious or just ignoring the tension completely. Stiles flails at the unexpected sound of his voice. Erica’s grip grounds him and keeps him from doing something moronic, like toppling over at Derek’s feet. 

“Yeah, no, totally good idea alpa man,” Stiles says, already tugging at Erica’s hand to get away from _how fucking awkward_ the situation is. Derek is doing his serious stare and then, he just _nods_ once, like that’s supposed to fucking mean anything to Stiles. 

Stiles drags Erica away and to his car and it isn’t until he sees Derek’s Camaro disappear out of the parking lot that he finally just exhales long and loud. He promptly gets out the excess energy by slapping his palms on his steering wheel, frustrated. 

“I fucking hate him so much,” Stiles says, vehemently. It’s a blatant lie, but in moment, it makes Stiles feels better, makes him feel less choked by jealousy and outrage. 

“I hate _her_ ,” Erica says, snarling. Stiles jerks, eyes on her face, the twist of her lips. She looks angry, scared. 

“You didn’t feel compelled to automatically like her?”

“She felt _horrible_. I thought she was going to attack me, that look in her eyes. Peter gets that look,” she says. Stiles belatedly notices the curve of her fingers, claws digging into her own leg. When her eyes turn to Stiles, they’re bright gold. “She was lying when she said she wasn’t powerful.”

“Of course she was,” Stiles says, throat thick. She has to be the druid. She _has to be_. If Erica didn’t like her, then that means she’s probably running low on power keeping Derek in compliance with her magic. Stiles smirks, knowing that will be the weak point. 

“What the hell are we going to do about that?” Erica asks, hand flying out, gesturing in the direction the Camaro disappeared. Stiles shakes his head, starting up the Jeep. 

“No idea, but we’ll figure it out.” 

Stiles owes it to Derek to get him back from her.

 

Lydia’s eyes are blank and unresponsive as she stands in front of the door, body listing back and forth unknowingly. Stiles shoves his feet into his shoes, not even bothering with his binder. The doorknob is already clicking and compressing as she lets herself out, gracefully moving out the door and down the sidewalk. Stiles scrambles to lock the door while she makes her way down the street. He double checks his pockets for his phone, switching on his GPS quickly. Just in case. As an after thought he sends a text to the whole pack.

[01:54] _Lydia’s doing the banshee locator thing. No immediate danger, following willfully_. 

He contemplates not sending it to Derek, just to be petty, but he decides against it. If he wants to prove to Derek that he’s mature enough for his baggage-laden ass at some point, he should probably start now. Every bit counts. 

No one texts him back, which he expects since it’s so late -- early? Whatever. Some people are probably still up, but they know it’s pointless to text him back. It’s not like he would listen if they told him to stay home, and he’s not going to bother with inane chatter when he’s diligently attempting to track Lydia through the streets of Beacon Hills. 

Speaking of. 

He spots the strawberry blonde of her hair disappear around the corner, so he jogs to keep up. There’s no way he’s going to walk next to her while she’s in this weird trance. It’s straight up _creepy_. But, he’s also not going to trail behind her like a stalker. A couple of paces, that’s it. 

It’s almost as if she’s floating, pulled towards wherever she’s going. As they near the edge of the woods, he has a suspicion it’s the giant stump she mentioned previously. Just a suspicion, he thinks, eyeing the scraggly silhouettes of the trees warily. There’s something about the woods at night…

He grew up in Beacon Hills. Every summer he and Scott would practically live in these woods, but now. Now, they’re far more menacing than they ever were before. The sheer amount of bodies that have been found in these woods is enough to put anyone off for the rest of their lives, but for Stiles, he still spends an inordinate amount of time in them. Case and point, now, as he follows Lydia deeper and deeper into them. 

It’s nearly an hour before anything changes. Stiles’ Pillsbury Dough Boy pajama pants are soaked around the bottom from the dew that’s lying over the leaves, goosebumps covering his arms. Somehow he’s lost sight of Lydia, just for a moment, as her tiny body disappears behind a particularly bulky tree. He panics, heart flying to his throat, propelling himself forward to catch up. 

But, she’s just stopped in the middle of a clearing, eyes dull and blankly staring. In front of them is the biggest stump Stiles has ever seen, old and profound. There’s a magnetism to it that Stiles can feel, digging at the core of his magic. It makes the binding runes burn hotly against his skin, fish hooks caught in him, reeling him in towards the stump. He walks forward, unthinking, just following the thread that he can feel from his sternum to the roots of the thing. Lydia’s voice pulls him out of it so abruptly that it feels like whiplash. 

“Not again,” she says, sharply, sounding angry. Stiles jerks and stumbles to her side, hands fluttering over her. She slaps his hands away. “I’m fine, Stiles. Fuck, did you follow me all the way here?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to know where it was, I didn’t know,” he says, not sure if he’s making sense. The stump is prickling the corners of his mind, as if it wants something from him. It feels like his magic is still pointed at it, like he’s a dog with one ear pointed directly towards the remnants of the tree. 

“Yeah, I figured you would,” she says, hands coming around to grasp his arms. He’s turned towards the stump without realizing, eyes glued to it. He barely notices the crunch of leaves, the sound of another person entering the clearing. Lydia inhales sharply next to him. He jerks his gaze away from the stump, landing on Peter. That was not the Hale he was expecting.

“It wants your magic,” he says, shoulders back. His eyes are fixed on the stump, a small frown on his face. “It’s hungry for it.”

Stiles steps closer, concentrating on the way his magic snakes out from his body, nearly palpable as it tries to escape him. He manifests fire in the palm of his hand and it escapes from him immediately, spiralling into the center of the stump and vanishing. 

“Why is it --?” Stiles doesn’t even have the words for what’s happening. Lydia’s grip tightens on his arm. She’s positioned herself just behind him, shielded herself from Peter with his body. Not that Stiles minds, it’s the best place for her to be. 

“It’s a nemeton,” Peter says, staring at Stiles blandly. “A supernatural beacon.” Peter cocks his head at them, realization coming over his features. A smirk curves on his lips, sharp and predatory. “You don’t know, then -- This is the reason why Beacon Hills is called such. It’s a natural place for creatures of all kinds to be drawn. It’s been dormant, but Derek’s little _mishap_ fixed that. Why do you think we have so many issues? More than is normal, don’t you think?”

Stiles frowns, looking between the stump and Peter. He doesn’t seem to be lying. Why would he lie? There’s no reason to. Besides, that would explain why the twins just had the overwhelming urge to come to Beacon Hills without having a good reason to. 

“Derek’s mishap?” Stiles asks. Peter’s smirk gets wider. 

It takes awhile for him to process what Peter tells him, when he talks about Paige and Derek and the root cellar. Lydia’s grip tightens on his arm every once in a while, punctuating points in the story, sending anxiety and adrenaline crashing through him alternatively. After Peter’s done, Stiles can’t help but just stare at the stump, unsure. 

“I always thought his eyes were blue because of you,” Stiles says, honestly. There’s nothing else he can really think of. Again, he doesn’t think Peter is lying. Even if some of the details are fabricated, there’s no motivation for Peter to tell them the story besides purely informative. It’s not like he could manipulate them into thinking less of Derek. Especially not telling it as a love-stricken Derek who was forced into a mercy killing. Stiles’ insides churn together, nausea a prominent feeling. 

Peter laughs outright, a harsh sound. 

“Blue means you deprived someone of _innocence_ ,” he says, eyes flashing crystal blue, glowing dull at them. Stiles can feel Lydia’s nails digging into the skin on his arm so harshly he’ll be surprised if there’s not blood. “I haven’t had innocence for a long time.”

“That seems vague,” Stiles says, trying to regain his footing. The tree, the _nemeton_ is distracting him, pulling and pulling at his magic like a loose thread. “Like, what kind of innocence? Moral innocence? Do your eyes turn blue if you kill someone who deserved it, like a murderer? What happens if you’re possessed and you kill people? It’s not _your_ doing, so do you have to deal with that? Can werewolves even get possessed?” 

“Focus, Stiles,” Lydia hisses, pressing them together even more. Peter’s moved closer to them without Stiles realizing it, coming around the side of the tree. Stiles shuffles backwards. 

“I don’t know how it works, Stiles,” Peter says, rolling his eyes in a way that could be good natured, if it wasn’t coming from Peter. “I just know that it does. I merely told you so that you know. The nemeton is a fickle thing. There’s more to this tree stump than one could possibly suppose. It took the sacrifice Derek gave it and used it as a catalyst for its power.” Peter looks at the stump again, frowning once more. “Now, it wants your power. Imagine what it could do with that.”

Stiles swallows, ice running through his veins. He’s even more aware of the way that the nemeton is pulling his magic in, dragging him towards it on a metaphysical level. If Lydia wasn’t anchoring him, he would probably have gone over by now, laid his palm against it so he could feel it. He shutters. 

“Just something to think about,” Peter says, smiling again, before he disappears. 

Lydia and Stiles exhale in unison once he’s out of sight, trees blocking him from view. They wait a few long moments, until he’s _hopefully_ out of range. 

“God, I hate him so fucking much,” Lydia says, shivering slightly. Neither of them have jackets and it’s chilly, numbing over Stiles’ skin and sinking into his bones. Stiles pulls up his magic, willing it to simmer under his skin. It warms the air around him and Stiles hooks an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close. The walk back through the woods seems to take less time. Despite the fact that they have to shuffle around every once and awhile to avoid branches while they’re plastered to each other’s side, they make decent time. The trees are just starting to space out when bright headlights cut through the darkness, momentarily blinding. 

Stiles recognizes the purr of the Camaro’s engine cutting through the soft sounds of the woods. He pushes Lydia into the front seat, flipping on the seat warmers, before curling up in the back.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles says to Derek, keeping the magic controlled like that exhausted him. He lets his head lull against the seat. Derek’s pale eyes watch him in the rearview mirror, judging. 

“Was it worth it?” he asks, plainly, clearly not impressed with Stiles’ need to know where Lydia goes when she sleepwalks into the woods in the middle of the night. Stiles sticks his tongue out.

“It was,” Stiles says, eyes firmly on Derek’s. “It’s a nemeton.” Stiles can see Derek’s jaw clench in the mirror as his eyes dart away, towards the front of the car. 

“The one with the root cellar?” he asks, stiffly. Stiles makes an affirmative noise, but doesn’t say anything else. It wasn’t Peter’s story to tell, he realizes. If Derek wanted them to know about that part of him, he probably would have told them already. If he could stand it. 

The realization makes him sick. Paige was Derek’s first love and he had to kill her because she was going to die anyway. Kate was his second and she trapped his family and killed them all, leaving Derek alive. Now, Derek’s dating someone who may or may not be using magic to manipulate his feelings involving her. 

Stiles watches Derek in the rear view, heart pounding in his chest. He understands what Derek meant when he said there was a lot he had to do for them to be together. Neither of those things can be easy to get over. Trust needs to be earned on Stiles’ part, but Derek needs to learn how to trust his own judgement. God, when Derek finds out what Jennifer really is, what she’s _doing_. Stiles’ chest tightens. He thinks he’s happy now, genuinely does, and that’s probably the worst part. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed tags and warnings for blood & violence.

There’s the mournful rattle of a lone pill around the bottom of the orange bottle when Stiles picks it up off his desk. The last Adderall he took hasn’t worn off yet, but he doesn’t need a lapse, he’ll probably fall asleep if he has to wait for a new pill to kick in. He slides the little orange pill onto his palm, swallowing it dry; it’s chalky and awkwardly sweet, but he forgets about it soon as he dives back into researching.

Lydia’s passed out on the bed, hair in a tangle across his pillows. There’s books shoved under her hand and arm, propping up her feet. He needs to invest in a scanner, digitalize all the volumes that Deaton posses so they can just ctrl + ‘F’ what they need and be done with it. It should totally be fine as long as they don’t accidently upload a demon to the internet, or something. There’s something to be said for the ability to ctrl + ‘F’ that not even the vanilla scent of bound books can make up for.

The desk vibrates as his phone gets a call, making him flinch and thrash about wildly in confusion before he picks up the phone, sliding to answer.

“Yo, Scott! What’s up?” he asks, mind still on the book in front of him. Adderall is so helpful and good, it makes him focus on his task and that task is looking up shit about crazy powerful women who can seduce werewolves and maybe -- probably -- mess with someone’s magical output. Easy, peazy, lemon --

“Erica’s gone,” Scott says, sounding weird and confused.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks, half-reading. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since he last saw her, it’s not like she’s actually a missing person at the moment, at least by police standards. He usually does things by police standards, except for when he’s breaking the law. He has to put his finger on the page so he doesn’t lose his spot.

“She’s not at home, or anywhere that she would be. Boyd hasn’t even seen her,” Scott answers, then, “are you listening?” Stiles startles, he might not have been listening. No, wait, Erica, right.

“Uh, yeah, research, Adderall,” he says, succinctly. Scott sighs, sounding way more exasperated than he should, considering Stiles has no idea what’s going on. He has books to finish, seriously.

“Stiles, stop, refocus, Erica.” Stiles stops, physically shutting the volume in front of him with a sigh. He has to actively resist the urge to delve back into the pages. The research trails are breadcrumbs or -- oh, a string in his mind, waiting to be picked up and continued, if he refocuses he has the suspicion he’ll lose it forever.

“But --”

“Just meet us at Derek’s,” Scott commands, annoyed, and hangs up on him. Stiles grimaces and pulls the phone away from his face.

“Rude,” he says to it, as if it can relay his message to Scott. Which, it actually can. He texts that thought to Scott before aggressively stacking his books into a neat little pile on his desk. He kicks at Lydia while he pulls on some company appropriate clothing. He’s wearing a batman t-shirt that’s so small his hips show, lime green briefs, and mismatched tube socks. All-in-all not a very appealing or manly look. Her hair is a spider web against her face as she glares at him with post-nap anger, barely moving her head.

“Erica’s gone,” he says, in one breath, pulling on a flannel. Lydia pops up, hair bouncing into something far more acceptable than any form of his bedhead could ever be. Flawless, even when exhausted from a night of researching compliancy spells. She’s totally his hero.

“How much Adderall have you taken?” she asks, very seriously. Stiles jerks, like how does she know these things? She pretends not to be psychic, but some things she really nails on. Like, his major boner for Derek, she knows. His soul-crushing, major boner… Whatever. “Stiles? C’mon, you’re flying past me.”

She snaps a finger in his face to get him out of his own head. Stiles blinks, tries not to watch with interest while she strips and roots in the back of his closet. The shirt she pulls out wouldn’t fit him, hasn’t fit him since his last T-fueled growth spurt. Stiles didn’t even know that was back there. See, psychic.

“Too much,” Stiles admits. “I went past my daily dose, sailed past it and didn’t even look back. I need to buy more. I can’t believe I have to buy more of my prescription medication.”

“You abuse it,” she says, pulling the drawstring on a pair of his sweats. She looks adorable in his clothes, hair drawn up in a messy bun. It’s comfortable, sexy chic. Every morning after fantasy for every guy who never got a morning after with her. Stiles’ 15 year old self is going ape shit at the image.

“I’m insanely attracted to you right now,” he informs her, morosely. His life would be so much easier if he could have fallen in love with her and not Derek. Lydia just smirks at him and fixes her bun.

When they stumble into Derek’s loft everyone is already there. The Adderall has done one of it’s nifty time-release things, so that he feels the kick again. This would be super helpful if he was still researching, but right now it’s making it hard to concentrate on one thing. His brain desperately wants to, but the focus keeps slipping out of his hands so he just feels like a jittery mess.

Everyone has their ‘serious business’ face on, he tries to focus and get with it. Lydia’s hand comes around his wrist and she pulls him into the room, pressing him forward until he hits the couch and sits down. She plops down next to him, feet curling up under her.

“Are you on Adderall right now?” Isaac asks. Stiles jitters in place and sighs.

“Yes,” he admits and everyone sighs at him because he’s pretty useless when he’s high unless he has research to do. “I didn’t know there was going to be a crisis, I was just trying to do some much needed research -- you owe me 15 bucks, by the way, Scott.”

“What?! You get them for five from Chester,” Scott says, indignantly. “Plus, what do you have to research, the crisis is here -- Erica?”

“Right, but now this one is wasted because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing because I’m here instead, so you owe me that one, plus like two to make up,” Stiles replies. He just ignores Scott’s question entirely; he’s not sure he could effectively deflect questions about it right now.

“Uhm, no,” Scott says, glaring impressively. Well, sort of impressively because Derek is actually standing behind him with a much more impressive glare and that’s a testimony to how much Stiles on Adderall sucks because he just noticed him now and not before, when he should have. He usually notices Derek first.

“I didn’t even notice you,” Stiles says to Derek, completely ignoring Scott. They’ll talk about this later, he’s getting that 15 bucks no matter what. “I usually notice you first.” Derek just rolls his eyes at him.

“Can we focus?” Boyd asks, his voice a half growl. And, whoa, usually Boyd is cucumber-cool in every situation, he’s unfazable. He isn’t even fazed by a full moon, it’s unnatural. Right now, though, he looks like he wouldn’t even be able to control a shift, eyes blazing yellow, hands clenched into fists. Stiles settles, trying to focus while his brain whirls.

“Who saw her last?” Derek asks. Stiles perks, because he totally did. Well, he totally might have.

“I saw her yesterday,” Stiles says, chewing his thumb nail. “We were doing the study-buddy thing. She left after a little while and said she was going to go home.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t weird, she was acting normal, didn’t seem like she was going to take off.” She doesn’t have a car or a license, so there would be no place for her to go really, unless she walked to a bus station.

“We should see if we can pick up a scent trail,” Scott says, perking up. Scent trail, right. As long as it’s not faded and there’s nothing interfering. They’re not bloodhounds, for fuck’s sake, the only person he thinks could actually catch that trail and follow it would maybe be Malia, but she’s with a different pack and he doesn’t think she even has a cell phone. He idly wonders if he could get her number if he wanted it, maybe he could talk to Deaton about talking to Satomi and see if he can get in touch with Malia. It’s been awhile since he’s seen her.

Lydia snaps her fingers in front of his face and he’s forced out of his own head. He just blinks at her. “Sup?” he asks, because everyone is looking at him expectantly.

“Stop spacing,” she says, pursing her lips. Great, now she’s annoyed with him. He thought they were in this together. Solidarity in the face of his prescription abuse. Whatever.

“Coyotes have a good sense of smell,” he mutters. Scott raises his eyebrows.

“How does that help us, Stilinski?” Isaac asks, voice sharp.

“It actually doesn’t,” he says, shrugging. Scott’s still looking at him with a knowing look, so he wiggles his eyebrows and makes Scott crack a grin.

“Can we focus?” Boyd asks, again, gritting his teeth. Stiles whirls around, blinking. There is some serious cool about to be lost. “Stop fucking around.”

“Chill, Boyd,” Stiles says, flapping his hand. “I have a plan. I’ll track the GPS on her phone, that’ll tell us where she is and we’ll be fancy free, or whatever the saying is.” He’s smug. It’s a good plan. Derek and Boyd roll their eyes simultaneously.

“I was trying to ask you if you could do that when you were spacing out, don’t be useless,” Lydia says, drily. Stiles flaps his hand at her in apology. She squeezes his leg.

“No need to throw around the “u” word, Lyds, it hits a little too close to home for me,” Stiles reprimands. He jostles around, trying to remember what kind of phone Erica has. He might actually have to call Danny for advice if he can’t figure it out, but he’d like to avoid that at all costs, because then he’ll owe Danny a favor and Danny’s favors aren’t exactly easy to accomplish.

“You could have told me to bring my laptop,” he says, directing the comment at Scott who just shrugs.

“Can you use Derek’s computer?” Lydia asks. Stiles looks at Derek, who’s staring at them like they’ve grown extra heads.

“He can,” Derek says, gruffly, and walks up the stairs without inviting Stiles along. Stiles leaps up and follows anyway, mostly because he’s tired being judged by his recreational drug use and everyone else is being such a bummer. He’s not entirely convinced they should be panicking about Erica yet, but that could be the Adderall chemically blocking his brain’s ability to experience empathy.

“You okay?” Derek asks, when they’re in his room. If it seems like a non sequitur, that’s because it is. Stiles stares at Derek, waiting for him to explain. Derek clears his throat and looks at Stiles. “I’m dating your English teacher, are you okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?” Stiles asks, too sharp, too quick. “I said I’m having a bad feeling about her and you decide to start fucking her. Makes sense, like you haven’t stuck your dick in enough evil things.”

Stiles doesn’t mean to say that. It just slips past his tongue and Stiles is too pissed to wish it back. Derek’s eyes harden with anger and Stiles thinks: yeah, show me that fucking emotion. Apparently, he’s a masochist, but he thinks it’s worth it to see the way Derek’s eyes light up for the first time in days. Anger is what sharpens Derek, makes him think. 

“Don’t start, Stiles,” he says, voice low. Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek might be his alpha, but he doesn’t take orders from Derek. There’s no alpha command to make the pack fall in line automatically. 

“Don’t start?” Stiles asks, trying not to be too belligerent. He genuinely wants to know the answer to the question he’s going to ask, knows that if he starts a real fight, Derek won’t answer him. “Just tell me, why her?”

Stiles has been campaigning for Derek’s attention since nearly the beginning and she gets it so easily, by cheating. Stiles would never do anything as fucked up as forcing someone to love him with magic. It makes him feel dirty just thinking about it. It makes Stiles so angry on Derek’s behalf. Of course, he can’t take it out on Jennifer, so who does he take it out on?

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Derek says, plainly, sighing like Stiles is causing him physical pain. Stiles groans. 

“Of course not! Why the fuck would you explain your feelings to me? That makes no sense.”

“I don’t see why you care,” Derek snaps, voice suddenly harsh and grating. It makes Stiles take a reflexive step backwards. If Derek notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “You’re with Lydia aren’t you?”

“Lydia?” Stiles demands, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “It’s Lydia.” 

Stiles flaps his hand at Derek, trying to convey the not right-ness of that statement, anger nearly evaporating in his confusion. A couple of years ago he would have jump at the chance to be with Lydia, but he didn’t know her. He didn’t get to see the wonder facets of her, all of her intelligence and fierce determination. After the kanima, after she figured him out -- There’s so much more to their relationship now, beyond physical desire.

“She’s wearing your clothes, staying at your house. You were in love with her for years,” Derek says. Apparently, he can’t just drop things. Stiles cannot believe they’re having this conversation.

“Dude, it was like bioman projection. What do guys do? Join lacrosse, talk about getting their dicks sucked all the time, have crushes on the popular chick. Fuck, you seriously think that I’m with her? You’re fucking nuts.” Not that it’s nuts to be with Lydia. It’s just that Stiles wants Derek. He hasn’t wanted anyone else in almost a year. Derek just keeps staring. The silence and the tension stretch between them uncomfortably.

“Before, when you kissed me, what was that?” Derek asks, and Stiles goes cold all over. It’s easy to pretend that his feelings for Derek are just entry-level, but when directly contrasted with his not-really feelings for Lydia and the fact that Ethan said, you smell like you’re in love -- 

Well, Stiles definitely wouldn’t call them entry-level and now he can’t ignore that.

“Why are we talking about this? You’re seeing someone,” Stiles says, unable to keep his voice from shaking, just a bit. Since when does Derek want to talk about their feelings? “Someone who is not me because you have too much baggage for me. What do you want me to say, Derek? That my ill-advised crush on you is bigger than my ill-advised crush on Lydia was? How is that not obvious by the fact that I’ve kissed you three times even though I get rejected every time?”

“Jennifer and I aren’t --” Derek says, frowning. “We’re not --” He looks lost, for lack of a better word, eyes slipping in and out of brightness like a flickering light. Stiles really hopes it’s not the Adderall making him hallucinate. He didn’t take that much and he doesn’t even know if Adderall is capable of such a thing. It has to be the compliancy spell. Maybe it’s waivering.

“I need that,” Stiles says, gesturing to the laptop that’s been sitting behind Derek innocently, waiting for its time to shine. A compliancy spell that has to be renewed? Maybe Jennifer doesn’t have as much control over Derek as Stiles thought.

“I wanted to explain,” Derek starts, but Stiles needs to run with this. A temporary spell, a time frame of use. Maybe it has an effect radius, maybe the spell would fade if Stiles could get Derek far enough away from Jennifer --

Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’ wrist and tugs him close.

“Do you know what’s going on?”

Stiles’ heart skitters and skates under his skin. Yes, yes he knows what’s going on and it’s all his fault.

“I have a theory,” Stiles says, too warm from how close they are. “We can either argue about whatever the hell we were just arguing about or you can let me go and let me figure it out.” Compliancy spells aren’t based in a specific element, so Stiles has no way to see what the anchor for the spell is. It could be an emotion, if she used an emotion then it won’t be as stable as it could be. It could be a rune. Maybe Stiles could convince Derek to go for a run and watch him strip to see if there’s any bind markings on him. It would have to be somewhere inconspicuous. Behind his ear, the bottom of his foot --

“Care to share with the rest of the class?” Derek asks, and Stiles would love to know if Derek’s aware of the fact that his thumb is rubbing against Stiles’ wrist in absent little strokes. It’s tender, intimate. Stiles wonders about spell transference. If the spell isn’t anchored correctly, Derek could turn his affection on someone else, say Stiles. Do things like stand too close, touch for too long.

Stiles takes a step back and sideways, picks up the laptop.

“Not until I’ve done my research,” Stiles says, dismissively. He can’t believe he just voluntarily moved away from a situation that could have resulted in Derek kissing him. Fuck, he’s so fucked --

“You coming?” Scott asks, from the doorway, scaring Stiles half to death. Derek just turns and nods, shooting a thoughtful look at Stiles before he goes. That was actually the weirdest conversation of their lives. Stiles flails with abandon, hoping to convey all of the weird pent-up feelings to Scott, clenching Derek’s laptop for dear life.

“Did something just happen?” Scott asks, but it’s less of a question and more of a statement, with Scott’s eyes narrowed into accusatory slits.

“Something is always happening, Scott, that’s the issue,” Stiles says, moving around Scott so he can carry Derek’s laptop down the stairs. He’s going to figure out this stupid fucking spell, he’s going to find Erica, he’s going to implicate Jennifer Blake. He’s going to get Derek back.

 

By the third day of Erica’s disappearance, Stiles is Done -- with a motherfucking capital ‘D’. He exhausted, worn thin by his own ruthless researching and spell casting in an attempt to locate her. They found her phone smashed in a nondescript part of the woods north of town, so they’re guessing she was taken. A deliberate abduction, he doesn’t know how this is their life.

They’ve all hardly left Derek’s, except to go to school in a daze, anxiety ridden and tense. Stiles keeps thinking he’ll see her at his locker or waiting for him at the end of the hall, watching everyone else with poorly disguised disgust, but lighting up when she sees him.

He never sees her though, not hide nor perfectly coifed hair. Jennifer Blake teaches English as if there’s nothing amiss. Of course, in her world there isn’t, but Stiles has a feeling that she probably involved. At lunch, they’re all silent and apprehensive. It’s uncharacteristic for all of them.

Stiles can feel her absence -- a gaping hole in his chest, he can’t even imagine how the wolves feel. Scott had told him about the pack’s bond once, a living magic that courses through them, makes them aware of each other on a metaphysical level. They’ve all said they can’t feel her anymore, mouths drawn tight with anxiety.

Stiles can admit that maybe, maybe he’s been taking this to heart a little more than he should. He was the last person who saw her, feels a strangling guilt when he thinks about how nonchalant he was when Scott told him she was missing. Adderall or not, he should have had his shit together. A tracking spell would have been more effective if he had done it right off the bat instead of waiting until after they found the crumpled remains of her Samsung on the ground.

He’s done four spells so far today of varying degrees. It’s possible to track a person by their physical presence or their metaphysical one. You can magically locate a person by the sound of their voice, the smell of their skin, the wavelength of their fucking soul. You can use a casting circle or a beacon or a familiar who you give instructions to in Latin. There’s so many options and none of them are working.

Currently, there’s a map of the ley lines of Beacon Hills in front of him along a bowl of Erica’s hair and choice spell ingredients that smell like dirt and spices. The room is quiet except for his murmured chanting. He gets a tingle of magic that runs through his arms, into the map. He opens his eyes to watch where his hands glow faintly, lighting up the map. In theory, Erica’s trail should glow bright before burning into the map where they can follow it easily.

Of course, that’s not how it happens, because Stiles’ life isn’t any semblance of easy. The magic creates a feedback that runs up his arms and expounds on the magic being generated. The entire map catches fire in a quick blaze. Fire climbs his shirt, devouring the material.

Derek jerks away with a loud snarl, fangs coming out immediately. He throws himself against the wall so hard the plaster cracks. Stiles yelps and flails wildly, forcing magic to accumulate the moisture in the air so he can put himself out. It’s a fairly quick process and it’s only a few seconds from the initial blaze to him being soaked and half his shirt burned, the map a pile of soggy ashes.

Derek’s wolfed out so badly that Stiles isn’t sure he can maintain control, hands elongated into claws.

“Derek,” he says, his palms down, trying to be as nonthreatening as he can. The rest of the pack is frozen in the living room, seemingly torn between letting it be and trying to help. “It’s gone, see?”

Palms down, he rotates his arms and points at the wet pile on the table. Derek huffs and breathes, visibly willing himself to settle down. It takes long moments before his fangs recede and his claws disappear. He takes long, slow drags of air to calm himself. Stiles can feel the rest of the wolves relax when Derek finally does.

Stiles feels Derek’s gaze sweep over his hands and his chest before landing on his face. “Stiles, you should borrow one of my shirts,” he says.

Stiles blinks, remembering he was on fire. His torso was on fire. The tattered remains of his shirt gape open on his left side, burnt up above his hips. He flinches minutely. The wolves can probably see it, Stiles forces himself not to cross his arms and hide the binder that’s so very visible.

Nearly the entire pack knows now, but Stiles can’t help the way his stomach feels heavy with lead, bile chasing anxiety up his throat. He feels shaky and unbalanced, standing there, too spooked to move. In the end, he curls his arms around himself protectively. After a moment of being torn between covering his curvy hips and his binder, he settles on hips, arms circling his waist self consciously.

No one says anything, but he can feel everyone’s eyes on him.

“What an interesting binding spell,” Peter says, snapping the band of tension. Stiles’ head swings around, he didn’t know Peter was in the room. He looks smug, arms crossed over his chest, eyes roaming the skin that Stiles isn’t covering greedily. How could Stiles forget about that? “Quite heavy duty, if you ask me.”

Stiles’ hands twitch, Derek’s glare is palpable in the space between them.

“Stiles, we should talk,” he says, in his no-nonsense voice. It’s almost as effective as his alpha voice, the way it makes him immediate feel chastised. Everyone watches as Stiles and Derek make their way up the stairs.

Derek doesn’t say anything until he’s closed the door behind them. It always seems like he takes up more space than he actually does, the way he looms with his whole body. Stiles shuffles and waits, pulse fluttering anxiously. He doesn’t know what Derek is going to say about the situation. The runes are too obvious to deny what Peter said. They trail the median of his body, binding his magic tight. Stiles can feel it, even now after his outburst of power, it feels choking.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Derek asks, eyes intent on Stiles’. Stiles shrugs and strips his shirt, making his way over to the closet. Derek doesn’t say anything when he grabs out a soft maroon shirt, pulling it over his head. He hooks his thumb through the holes at the wrists and fiddles with the bottom of the sleeve.

“Well, you know how when I got bound to the pack you growled at me and told me to keep it under control or I would be out? Kinda didn’t want that to happen, so I didn’t say anything, and now you know, so yeah,” Stiles rocks forward on his toes self consciously.

There’s something like terror curling around the base of his spine. Derek’s condition for taking Stiles into the pack was absolute control. Stiles knows he smells like Kate sometimes, like ash and that warm scent of a crackling fire. It must do horrible things to Derek, trigger him in the worse ways. But, Derek knew Stiles needed a pack and Stiles had promised -- Now, everything is fucked up, the runes drawn on him perfect evidence of that.

“You thought I was going to kick you out of the pack,” Derek says. It’s not a question. Stiles looks at the ground and shrugs. Of course he does. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Really, because I’m pretty sure when you bound me you said something along the lines of ‘Stiles, keep control, your fire-based magic scares the shit out of me and reminds me of my shitty ex-girlfriend that killed my entire family’.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it, with your eyebrows and your glaring. That angry stare of yours says way more than you do.” Stiles bites the skin around his thumb. “Plus, you wolfed out and made me leave training the first time I used my fire magic around you, so, it was implied.”

“You’d think I’d do that now,” Derek says, another not-question. Stiles shrugs again, because really, what is he supposed to think? That he can just pop off at anytime and Derek won’t care? No one wants an incompetent magic user in their pack. Especially not a fire starter. That’s how packs get bad reputations. Derek glares more, says, “I wouldn’t.”

“That’s good to know, because it’s becoming an issue,” Stiles admits, shifts his weight so that he’s braced on the backs of his feet. Not that he thinks Derek is going to tackle him or anything, he just likes to be prepared. Derek looks amused. “The other day, I mean, I don’t know how much you saw because of the weird love spell you’re under, but I was like flowering all over the place.”

“It’s not a love spell,” Derek reprimands instantly. Stiles shrinks. He didn’t mean to say that.

“Right, totally not a love spell,” Stiles says, unable to help the frustration in his voice. “You just decided, right after you turned me down, to go out and get a girlfriend. Sounds totally voluntary.”

“You know why I can’t be with you,” Derek says, sharply. “I can’t be with anyone in the meantime? I can’t help how I feel about her.”

And, that hurts. Stiles feels the words like a stab in the gut, white-hot-burning hurt, making his chest tighten awfully. It’s horrible, how much of an effect Derek can have on Stiles. For some reason, his eyes feel hot, cheeks burning. Derek’s eye soften around the edges and it makes Stiles want to punch him.

“Because you’re being magically roofied!” Stiles yells, suddenly so angry that he’s choking on it. He can’t believe he’s this weak, to be so susceptible to what Derek says and how he acts. He can’t believe that Derek can’t see what’s happening. Derek’s eyes widen in shock, then collapse back into a glare.

“You’re fishing, Stiles,” he accuses, taking a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

“No, I’m really, really not. Trust me, Derek,” he says. “I’m always right. I was right about Lydia, the twins --”

“Doesn’t mean you’re right about this,” Derek says, dismissively. Which, whoa, no, not right.

“When am I wrong?” Stiles snaps, then storms past Derek to leave. He’s wasting time with this, they could argue all day about it, but the reality is that absolutely none of the wolves are going to be able to see what’s in front of their eyes. Eyes. Eyes.

Stiles turns and storms back to up to Derek. It startles him enough that he holds shock still while Stiles grabs his chin and tilts his head. There’s a thin layer of something covering his eyes, like glass or water, a coat of it. It must be what he saw when Erica first went missing.

“When did you see Jennifer?” he asks, hypersensitive to their proximity. He wants to huddle into Derek’s warmth and recover from the emotional exhaustion that the last few weeks have subjected him too. Derek blinks, slow, peels himself away from Stiles.

“Yesterday,” he admits, giving Stiles major side-eye action. Stiles scoots back, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Yeah, just curious,” he says, heart tripping up in a lie. Not that it matters, Derek doesn’t bother calling him out on it. Stiles offers Derek a shrug, for lack of anything else, and leaves the room, scrubbing a hand over his face.

None of this makes sense, still. If Jennifer is the druid -- which Stiles is about 95% sure that she is -- what’s her game. She killed the alphas, she got the power. It doesn’t seem like she’s vying for Derek’s power, she could easily ask him to be the Hale emissary and get it that way. Why go through the trouble of binding Derek and the pack to her, unless she’s trying to get something done quickly. But, what? 

Did Erica disappear because of Jennifer? If Jennifer couldn’t make Erica like her, might as well get rid of her. Kidnapping seems extreme though. Maybe the rest of that pack saw Jennifer around the Hale pack and decided to retaliate, took Erica to make a point. But, Jennifer isn’t part of their pack. Declaring war on a pack in their own territory for an outside magic user is ridiculous. 

Stiles doesn’t get it, but he desperately wants to. He just needs to crack one of the mysteries, one. Then, maybe, maybe it will all unravel and Stiles will be able to see the big picture. For now, though, it’s just a jumble of loose ends of tangled string that’s driving him crazy, making his head tumble with thoughts that only make partial sense. 

Lydia stops him at the bottom of the stairs, hand on his arm drawing him out of his thoughts. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, tipping her head at the stairs, where Derek is still in his room. Stiles nods, because what else is he going to say? He’s not going to admit that Derek’s involvement with Jennifer is breaking his heart into shards. That when he thinks about it, it feels like there’s glass in his chest. That’s not something he can say out loud and keep his pride while doing it. So, he’s fine. He’ll be fine, he’ll stay fine, and he’ll figure it out. It’s the only thing he can do. 

 

 

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Scott asks, flipping the page of the book morosely. Scott is nearly allergic to research. He prefers the action portion of events instead of the build up. Which, Stiles gets, but he needs as many eyes on this as he can get. Lydia’s already been helping him, Scott’s just a bonus. Hang time plus much needed book time. It’s a win-win for Stiles.

“Dude, one of these days I’m just going to be a pillar of fire and then you’ll be sorry,” Stiles says. He’s not researching his magic, he’s researching Jennifer’s magic. There might be a way to identify whether or not she’s a druid. He should ask Deaton. “I need my magic drained off. Preferably soon. I can’t do locator spells if I keep setting shit on fire or sprouting flowers.” Scott nods his head, raising his eyebrows. 

“True. If I have to smell any more flowers, I’m going to just lock you in a closet until it all blows over,” he says. Stiles flips him off. “Why am I looking into the nemeton, though? Peter said it just wanted your magic as a power-up, that can’t be good.”

“You’re seriously going to trust Peter’s word on this?” Stiles asks, slamming the cover shut on the book he’s reading. It’s all useless information about growing herbs and making your trees sprout more useful things like socks. Magic is so fucking weird sometimes. “Peter is not to be trusted.”

“Right, but why would he lie?” Scott asks, shoulders bouncing dismissively. Sunlight cuts through the window, lighting Scott up in golds and yellows. They’ve been at this for the better part of the day. Stiles stares at him, slack jawed. 

“Why wouldn’t he lie. It’s Peter! He might be lying low right now, but let’s not forget that this is the guy who took precautions against death by biting a banshee before she came into her powers. Then, resurrected himself from beyond the grave. I’ve been studying magic for over half my life and I have no idea how he was cognisant enough while dead to perform such a thing.”

“Horcruxes, dude, horcruxes,” Scott says, with a frown. Stiles nods along enthusiastically, that’s one of his theories. Magic is whacky, it’s probably not impossible. Though, Harry Potter magic is a whole different brand of magic than what’s readily available. 

“I bet I could make a series of magic tricks that responded to command words,” Stiles says, sighing. If he had the time he totally would. Air magic manipulation to make things levitate, just put enough intent behind the word each time it gets used and wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, Harry Potter magic. He could probably only manage to transfigure simple elements, but that would totally be enough. He should really look into that obsidian thing. 

“If anyone could, it would be you.” Scott gets a high five for that. 

“This tree is bullshit,” Lydia says, storming into the room. There’s a stack of books in her arms that she unceremoniously dumps next to the desk. Stiles recognizes some of the Hale books in the stack and flails at her angrily. 

“Watch it with the merchandise,” he gripes, hands fluttering over the books. “These are old as hell and Derek will probably string me up and gut me if they get ruined.” There’s already smears of Cheeto on a couple of the pages that he needs how to figure out how to get rid of. Too bad he doesn’t have a scourgify spell handy.

“Oh, Derek will string you up, god forbid,” she says, with maximum sass. “Derek is useless, everyone is useless. I called Allison, I can’t handle this anymore.” Scott’s head perks up when she mentions Allison, eyes going wide and hope. It’s a little painful to watch. 

“Hey, I’m not useless!” Stiles says. “I’m way useful, are you kidding me?”

“Yeah, you and your one thousand distractions. What are you reading about right now? Oh, nothing. That’s useful.” 

“Tone it down, sassifrass,” Stiles growls. They left Derek’s loft because the tension was getting to be too much. Even with groups going off every so often to patrol the area for any trace of Erica, everyone was at each other’s throats. Stiles didn’t need any of that stress induced frustration here. “We’re doing the best we can.” 

Lydia scowls at him. 

“Yeah, and Erica is still missing, you’re still overflowing with magical energy,” she stomps over to him, and yanks at his shirt, revealing the new lines of bounding magic that are drawn on his torso. Two giant seals that ride his hips. Stiles shoves his shirt down and glares.

“At least they’re doing the trick,” Stiles snaps, batting her hands away. Before Lydia can retort, the doorbell rings. Scott bounces out of his seat, rushing down the stairs before Stiles can even move. After the creak of the door and Scott’s awkward greeting, Stiles can hear Allison’s voice float up. 

“Wow,” Lydia says, with a long exhale.

“Right?” Stiles says, because Scott has no chill. When they walk up the stairs, he’s making a stricken face at the back of Allison’s head. Lydia and Stiles roll their eyes at the same time. Behind Allison’s back, Scott flips them both off. 

“What are you working on?” Allison asks, face threatening to break out in a smile. There’s no way she doesn’t know what just transpired. 

“Trees,” Lydia says, with another eye roll. 

“A tree, the tree,” Stiles corrects. There’s an entry on the nemeton pinned on his wall that he gestures to. “We’re trying to figure out what the nemeton would use my energy for if I was going to uh, donate my magic to it.”

“Why do you need to do that?” Allison asks. Which, surprises Stiles. He expected the others to tell her. He expected Lydia to tell her. When he glares at Lydia, she just shrugs, so Stiles briefs Allison on his slow loss of control.

“That’s what you were doing in the woods?” she asks, with a frown, eyes on Stiles’ stomach. Not that she can see the markings. Stiles nods. Scott must remember that Allison was with Isaac when she saw Stiles in the woods. One minute he’s all sunshine smiles, the next he deflates and grabs the nearest book, flipping it open morosely. Stiles is going to give him so much shit for it later. 

“Yeah, I’m still figuring out how to work around the seals, it’s interesting.” Allison makes an agreeable noise and grabs a book, sitting down on the other end of the bed, facing Scott. Her hair makes a curtain between them as she starts to look through the book slowly. That must make Scott feel safe, he looks up from his book to make soft eyes at her, smiling slightly.

“I’m going to be sick,” Lydia says, staring at Scott. Stiles laughs out loud while Scott and Allison shoot them twin looks of confusion. It almost feels normal. Except for the part where it’s absolutely the furthest thing from that.

“You said that the tree is a stump, right?” Allison asks. Lydia nods. “Why is it a stump? What would be accomplished by cutting it down?”

“Everything I’ve read says that it’s a sacred place for druids,” it’s Scott who answers, closing his book over his finger and looking at Allison. “Maybe cutting it down was a way to discourage the druids from coming back.”

“It was dormant, before Derek killed Paige in the root cellar,” Lydia says, mouth turning down. “She was the first death.” 

“First death?” Allison asks.

“There’s this -- trifunctional hypothesis,” Stiles says. “A division of a society into three classes. For our society in Beacon Hills it’s shifter magic, elemental magic, and non-magic. If the nemeton accepted Paige as a sacrifice, then it’s waiting for the next two if it’s following that pattern.”

“If Stiles dumps his excess magical power into the nemeton, hypothetically it could fulfill the elemental magic sacrifice, even without a death,” Lydia adds. “There’s no way to know.”

“Or, you could just make it more powerful, right, make it more of a beacon to the supernatural?” Allison asks. They all nod at each other. “Well shit.”

“Right? If I get anymore powerful, it might be the only opinion, though,” Stiles says, chewing his bottom lip. The seals on his torso are a constant reminder to keep looking. They make him feel vulnerable and compressed, it’s driving him crazy, but it’s not the only thing he has to worry about. At least having Scott help with the research allows Stiles to keep investigating compliancy spells. 

There’s still nothing on rune-based compliancy spells. Elemental magic doesn’t even seem capable of such a thing. Water can influence compassion, but an entire pack plus their alpha? Jennifer must be the grand fucking wizard or something. Unless she’s getting help from somewhere, a coven maybe. Multiple magic users that could benefit from having a pack under their influence. But, then, why not just join a pack? Or make their own pack. Especially if magic users can serve as alphas. 

It’s all still too vague for Stiles to understand. He feels like he’s missing a huge chunk of it, an element to understanding. Now, Erica’s gone, but why. Again, Jennifer wants the pack, it wouldn’t be conducive to take a pack member. Unless, it’s a play, to force the pack to make a move. What, though? There’s nothing that it would accomplish, besides pissing Derek off. There’s no purpose behind it. The worse thing is having Derek caught in the middle. Being bent to her will without realizing it. As if his past with Kate Argent wasn’t enough, now there was Jennifer, using him -- 

Before he really thinks about it, he’s diving into himself, feeling around for his magic at his core. It’s crammed just behind his sternum, wound tightly. He carefully picks out a thread, unraveling just enough for what he wants to do. The window lifts with the gust of wind he sends to it, staying open to allow a clump of dirt from his yard to float into the room. 

The others watch him with wide eyes. 

“Dude, you’re getting really good at summoning elements,” Scott says, voice full of something like awe. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, it’s easy,” he says. Allison shakes her head, fingers brushing the pebbles as they move past her to settle in front of Stiles. He uses fire and wind to shift the elements, rearrange the composition. The dirt winds tightly in front of him, but doesn’t do what he wants. He sighs and grabs a pen, writing two runes on a piece of paper. The dirt goes willingly and the runes activate with a jab of fire magic. 

“I can’t do that,” Allison points out. The dirt has compressed into a shiny black stone in the shape of a bird. Stiles holds it in his palm, satisfied. He shrugs at her, not sure what he’s supposed to say to that.

“What you can do is kick ass, though,” Stiles says, squeezing the little raven in his hand. Lydia’s watching him with another knowing expression. He ignores it. There’s still a tingle in his forearms as he sends more magic into the bird discreetly. Earth for stability, air for reason, water for emotion, fire for passion. 

“What’s that?” Scott asks, pointing at the raven. It’s glowing bright red, shining through the gaps of Stiles’ fingers. So much for discretion. 

“It’s a protection charm for Derek,” Lydia says, with a slight smirk. Stiles sticks his tongue out at her. 

“What does he need protection from?” Scott demands, jerking around. 

“Oh my god, are you worried about him?” Stiles asks. “That’s really cute.”

“What’s cute is that you made a raven,” Scott snarks back, with a smirk. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Shut your mouth. It’s to ward off Jennifer’s spell.”

“Her spell? Christ, Stiles, are you still on that?” Scott asks, rolling his eyes like Stiles is being particularly infuriating. “You can’t just let it go, can you? Are you really that jealous?”

Stiles’ stomach plummets to the floor, the hot burn of humiliation runs through him. Scott doesn’t say shit like this. Only about Jennifer Blake, only because of the stupid spell. Stiles can’t help the way it makes him feel reprimanded.

Are you really that jealous? 

It hurts. Worse than every one of Derek’s rejections. If Stiles is honest with himself, he expects Derek’s rejection. Scott, though. Scott understands the ways that Stiles cares for Derek. Somedays, he understands it better than Stiles himself does. Especially the days that Stiles wants to punch Derek in his stupid fucking face. So, this complete dismissal of Stiles’ feelings. Not only the feelings he has for Derek, but the gut feeling that he has that means Jennifer is a dirty-rotten-no-good lady. Well, shit. 

“Back the fuck off, Scott,” Lydia snaps, mouth pursing. Scott jerks and stares at her, eyes going impossibly wide. “It’s not a matter of jealousy, so drop it. Stiles, make a few more of those. I think this wolf needs some perspective.”

 

Two days later Stiles gets a media message from an unknown number. It refuses to download at school, because of his shitty network, so he has to wait until he’s connected to the wifi at home. When the video comes in, it’s dark and pixelated, but it’s so obviously Erica. She’s strung up by her wrists, gag in her mouth and blindfolded. The only sounds are the crackling of the speakers, the jingle of chains as they hit, Erica’s whimpering. He feels himself go cold instantly, tastes bile at the back of his throat.

An address comes in from the same phone number in the next second, come alone.

Stiles knows he shouldn’t listen to the command, knows that he should call Scott and Derek. He should definitely call Derek, but it’s like the rational side of his brain goes offline. There’s just this overpowering need to get to Erica, to help her, to find her alive and make sure she’s safe. He needs to find her alive so Derek doesn’t have to find her dead. There’s a gun in his closet safe, wolfsbane and silver bullets, mountain ash. He grabs everything, just in case. He has no idea who would go after the beta of an established pack, it could be hunters, or other wolves, druids, witches, there’s a long list.

He has to stop when he gets in the Jeep, rest his head against the steering wheel and just breath. ‘Spring the trap and start shooting’ is a horrible plan, a horrible, no-good, really-bad plan, but he doesn’t have any other options at the moment. He doesn’t have time to set up any back up. The text had said come alone, and Stiles had absolutely no idea what these person/people is/are capable of. He could send a text to his dad as a precaution, but if they have his phone hacked and they know, Erica could die. Or she could be fine, he doesn’t know. He groans loudly.

“Fuck it,” he says aloud, mentally bracing himself for -- what? He has no idea -- anything.

The address leads him to a fenced in complex of old warehouses that look like they’re about to be upgraded, or got abandoned in the middle of an upgrade. There’s tarp and construction equipment, but the lot looks abandoned from what he can see. He parks the Jeep and clambers onto the hood, using the extra height to jump the chain link fence. He lands with a thud, impact reverberating in his calves. Behind him, the fence wobbles back and forth loudly making him wince and stop, taking a defensive position. No one comes running to investigate the noise though, the lot doesn’t stir. There’s no people with guns or werewolves with claws.

The only thing stirring is the tarp hanging in the doorway of the closest entrance, edges snapping in the wind. He gets a feeling of dread that’s lodged in his chest, but he pushes around it, draws out his gun and clicks the safety off. The gun is shaking and he can’t get rid of the anxious, sick feeling that’s threatening to overwhelm him, but he’s ready. Right? So ready.

He takes a deep breath and steps through the tarp. The warehouse is so dark that he can’t see more than a few feet in front of him. He can only hear the rustle of tarp, the slow drip of a leaking faucet. There’s black over the windows, what he assumes is spraypaint, so that no light hits the floor or illuminates the space. He curses, summoning his magic to produce a small light source. It floats out above him, giving him a small spot light.

His heart leaps in his throat when he realizes he’s not alone. Lydia is right next to him, her eyes glazed over in some sort of trance. Stiles wonders how she got here -- he didn’t see her car -- if she’s been here long. He doesn’t know how he didn’t sense her. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, it’s almost too loud for anything else. There’s a terrified feeling creeping through his veins at the sight of her, because her presence is a bad omen in itself.

If she’s been summoned here that means someone is -- that means Erica might be --

He sends a pulse of magic to illuminate the room and it holds, suspended, casting a gold light over everything. Including, especially, Erica hanging from her wrists in the middle of the room, head lulled to the side. He shouts her name, racing to her, and that breaks whatever spell Lydia was under because in that moment she’s screaming -- it’s loud, so fucking loud -- he shouts and ducks, covering his ears as a thousand supernatural voices shake him to his core, making his magic tremble with grim resolve. It feels like he can’t breathe.

Her wail pulses out, shattering the dark windows and flooding the warehouse with natural light. The surprise has his vision turning black, tears springing to his eyes as they fight to adjust. It takes too long -- by the time Lydia’s stopped screaming -- her voice cutting off abruptly -- he can see again.

“Stiles?” she asks, sounding terrified and out of her depth. “Stiles, how did we get here, when?” Stiles can’t answer her though, too busy looking at Erica now that there’s enough light to see the pale parlor of her skin in contrast to the wet and red of the blood leaking from her throat. It drips in fat globs off of the tips of her fingers, her boot -- what Stiles thought was a leaking faucet was Erica’s blood hitting the floor.

Adrenaline rushes through his system, but it’s not the panic-inducing adrenaline, it’s different. He feels numb to any reaction besides the mechanical as he clicks the safety back on the gun, shoves it into his waistband, and rushes to Erica’s strung up body.

Thankfully she’s hanging pretty low, so it doesn’t take much for him to haul her up and pull her down from the hook that’s holding her. He ignores the chains around her wrists, focuses on how warm her body still is. She didn’t die that long ago. His mind is made up extraordinarily quick for someone who has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s covered in Erica’s blood, smeared everywhere, and he has to do something. The wound on her neck hiccups out more blood, reminding him to hurry.

He dips his finger into the blood at her throat, ignoring the wave of sickness that crashes over him. Tearing her shirt open with shaky hands, he starts to write runes in blood on her pale, white skin. He just needs to believe, he just needs to --

There’s a loud crash, the sound of metal rendering, and Derek is blowing through the tarp a second later with a snarl, his fur standing on end. Stiles doesn’t have anytime to react before he leaps towards where Stiles is cradling Erica on the floor, crimson blood smeared over the both of them. His teeth sink into the leather of her jacket, tearing her body away from Stiles. He fumbles, trying to grasp at her limbs, but Derek caught him by surprise.

He drags her away and crouches over her body, looking at Stiles with loathing. Every muscle in his body is tensed to spring, to defend. Against Stiles. Stiles, who is trying to save her life and is running out of time to do it. He knows it’s a stupid idea to challenge Derek when he’s out of his mind with -- grief, anger, whatever it is -- but Stiles needs that body.

“Derek, I need you to step away,” Stiles commands, standing, palm swirling with fire before he can even register it. He should be shaking with fear right now, he knows, because Derek’s muzzle is drawn back in the most vicious snarl Stiles has ever seen, but he can’t --

“Derek!” he shouts, steps closer. The fire burns hotter in the air, and Stiles flings it towards Derek’s flank, nonlethal but effective. He yelps and leaps back when it makes contact, fur catching. It gives Stiles the space to erect a blazing wall of fire between Derek and Erica’s bodies. The magic circles around quickly to include Stiles and Lydia, protecting them.

Stiles stumbles towards Erica, keeping an eye on the fire so that it doesn’t waver; he tips her body back so her blank eyes are staring at the ceiling, smears his fingers in blood again so he can continue writing on her body. Just a few more -- Derek is snarling and snapping on the other side of the fire, stalking back and forth, red eyes glinting in the flames.

Stiles knows it’s going to come down the minute he starts a new spell, but he can’t help that. He needs to do whatever it takes to save Erica. He shoves uncertainty away, just hoping that Derek doesn’t try to take him to pieces once the fire goes out. There’s a moment where he has no idea what to do before he just thinks fuck it.

“Lydia, I need you,” Stiles says, tapping into his magical energy before she even answers. He starts writing with Erica’s blood on his own skin now, ignoring the new wave of nausea that comes over him as he does so.

“Stiles, I can’t --”

“Lydia, I need you --”

“Stiles --”

His magic surges hot, collecting against the runes with a bright light, responding when he presses his palm against the ones written on Erica’s chest. The ragged edges of the wound start glowing, but it’s not enough.

“Lydia!” he shouts and flinches hard when her hand lands over the runes on his wrist instantly. He didn’t expect her to be so close. He chances a glance at her, expecting sorrow or disgust, but her face is clearly determined, looking bad at him with her big hazel eyes.

“Ante mortem,” they whisper together. Stiles takes the opportunity to tap into Lydia’s magic, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, not really, but he’s past caring.

Together, they feel the surge of terror that Erica felt. The pressing darkness -- the heavy smell of sewer -- the flare of pain in her head from where she was knocked out. There’s wolfsbane in the chains, the room feels like death. The slow slide of the blade as it slices her skin, the warmth of blood pouring down her --

Lydia shouts and tears her hand away from Stiles’ and she’s reeling away, hand skittering up to her throat. He feels his own throat, feels the phantom drag of the blade. His stomach wants to be sick. He grabs Lydia’s hand back, because they’re not done.

The fire surrounding them goes down and Lydia lets out a terrified, human shriek --

He pushes their combined magic into Erica, feeling around for something -- anything -- he needs to feel a spark of life, her wolf, whatever. If she’s still clinging to this plane, there will be --

There’s a snarl behind them that he’s dimly aware of, too focused on the magic around him --

Stiles feels it more than he sees it, a warmth buried deep in the miasma of death that’s shrouding Erica --

Sharp teeth sink into his shoulder, white-hot pain burns through him. He screams out loud, losing his grip as he feels warm blood trickle down his shoulder --

He fights the pain and uses his magic to plunge into the darkness, searching for the warmth that he just felt. Erica is still down there and he’ll be damned if he --

The teeth dig in deeper and Stiles screams, barely able to hold onto the connection, but he pulls with every ounce of magic available to him. A glow starts in Erica’s chest and Stiles tugs, just a little further. There’s a growl and Derek’s mouth is unceremoniously ripped from Stiles’s shoulder as Scott tackles him away. They clash in a vicious display of muscles and fur.

Erica takes a gasping breath, coughing and hacking and gagging as the wound on her neck glows and closes. Stiles rips himself away from her, disconnects his magic from her and Lydia, redirecting his energy to grow a field of wolfsbane around himself. Erica snarls and crawls away feebly to get away from the poison and Stiles would be so fucking happy if he wasn’t bleeding --

“Lydia, I need --” his hands are shaking, body shutting down from shock as blood slips wetly down his shoulder. He tears his shirt off mindlessly, using his hand to grind the wolfsbane down and shove it into the wound, yelling as pain seers through every single nerve ending in his body.

He can’t turn, he can’t turn, he can’t turn --

Lydia gets the hint, grinding up wolfsbane and cramming it into every tooth hole and puncture mark in his shoulder. The wound is gaping open, bleeding still, gory tears from where Derek’s muzzle had dragged. There’s still the sounds of fighting from Derek and Scott, but Stiles blocks it out, rushes fill the wound.

“You’re done, you’re done!” Lydia’s yelling, as Stiles pushes wolfsbane into a laceration that already has some of the flower in it. It feels like his shoulder is going to fall off. He looks at her, vaguely registers her hands covered in his blood, and then uses the last of his energy to set his shoulder on fire, losing consciousness as the wolfsbane burns.

 

 

It’s feels like Stiles is wading through water, but all that’s around him is blackness. There’s the sensation of movement, but not walking or running, it’s more like propulsion, a feeling of being dragged forward against his will.

He blinks and he’s next to Lydia, her figure bright in the surrounding darkness. Her hair is flowing up and back and forth like they’re underwater, but there’s no water. He tries to touch her, but when he reaches out there’s no arm for him to manipulate. He watches as Lydia glides forward, moves without moving. The darkness parts in front of her and there’s Peter Hale, just staring.

Lydia screams, face a sudden flash of terror, but no sound comes out. She doesn’t seem to notice.

There’s something bright in Peter’s palm and he moves towards her at the same time blackened arms rise from the darkness and grip Lydia around her limbs, holding her in place. Lydia doesn’t struggle, mouth still open in a silent scream, but her eyes are tearing now, roving Peter’s face looking absolutely terrified.

Stiles desperately wants to wrench her away -- from the arms gripping her tight, from Peter. He can’t do anything except watch as Peter shoves the bright sphere down Lydia’s throat, a blackened arm coming out of the darkness next to Peter to cover her mouth, force it shut. She swallows reluctantly, thrashing as if she’s aware she can move now.

Brightness blooms inside of her, unfurling like a flower. When she opens her eyes, they’re glowing bright white, light inhabiting her. Stiles looks down, aware that he has a corporeal form. He’s glowing at the edge, both Lydia and Peter look at him sharply, as if he’s interrupting. Lydia starts struggling, screaming words this time, but he still can’t hear her.

He’s pulled back, looks down to see blackened hands grabbing him around his waist, wrist, clenching his ankle. He can’t move, can’t even try to move. The grip feels slick, as if the hands and arms are covered in oil, but it’s warm. Distantly, Stiles is reminded of the first time he met Derek, wolfsbane bullet wound weeping black blood like ink. He feels sick.

Peter stalks towards him, eyes intent, but Stiles’ shuts his eyes, opens them to see Lydia in Peter’s place, neither of them restrained any longer. Her eyes are wet with tears, mouth a void as she whispers, “but Erica and Boyd --”

Stiles looks left to see two figures shrouded in darkness, an abstract mess of limbs and shapes. He steps towards them, one foot in front of the other, the brightness of his body lighting up the area around them. It’s Erica and Boyd, pale and struggling against the arms holding them down.

They stop thrashing to watch as Stiles approaches with Lydia at his side, her hand in his. Boyd and Erica are lifted slowly, the disembodied arms propelling them upwards. Stiles watches as a hand grabs Erica’s hair, another clenches at Boyd’s through. For a moment, there’s nothing but their wide terrified eyes, then their necks are wrenched back at impossible angles, tearing open. Red bird flock from the gaping wounds, colored red like blood and dripping, flying at Lydia and Stiles.

Stiles forces Lydia down as the birds swoop overhead, clawing at their bodies with sharp talons. Lydia’s screaming again, mouth opening wide, a gaping void. It swirls into a pit, trying to suck Stiles in. He scrambles away, but his progress is slowed until he’s not moving anymore, limbs weighted down by some unseen force. He tries to struggle, but he’s not going anywhere.

“I found you,” says a voice, low and high at the same time. It slices through the silence like a gaping wound. Stiles feels himself being dragged back and, abruptly, he’s back in the warehouse, sliding through Erica’s blood, hands clawing at concrete.

He comes to a stop, rolling to get up, but he falters, pitching forward to throw up on the floor. What leaves him is thick, black, and tastes like death.

“Soon.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Stiles wakes up, the acrid scent of wolfsbane is heavy around him. He thinks he’s still in the warehouse, but he blinks his eyes open to the speckled board of removable ceiling tiles. The hospital lights are dimmed and he’s breathing deeply through an oxygen mask. It only takes a minute of flailing around to dislodge it. Those things make him claustrophobic as fuck.

The machines beep in time with his heart. Everything feels too heavy. Sore muscles, ache in his chest that indicates he overdid it with his magic. There’s a dull throb behind his temples. He feels off-kilter from the dreams, as if he can still taste the black gunk in his mouth, feel the scratch of the bird’s talons. He takes slow breaths, trying to recalibrate. 

There’s a tingling in his forearms that alerts him to magical output. He blinks his eyes at the field of wolfsbane flowers sprouting from nothing. The flowers disappear the minute he reels in his magic. He flexes his fingers. It must have been a defensive response. Wolfsbane for a wolf’s bite. Stiles’ insides slither together unpleasantly at the thought, shoulder twinging uncomfortably. 

There’s shuffling from his right and he looks up to see his dad sitting under the window, head in his hands. The slouch of his shoulders is miserable. Stiles has seen that slouch too many times over the course of his life. It’s the ‘my wife is dying’ slouch, the ‘my little girl isn’t a little girl’ slouch. It’s the slouch that comes with nearly a whole department being exterminated by a kanima. Impending Doom Slouch. 

“Hey, dad,” he croaks. In an instant, his dad jerks up and crosses the room to gather Stiles in his arm and squeeze him tight. Stiles ignores the pull of his wounded skin, inhaling the familiar scent of his dad’s jacket. He can feel the edges of his vision prickling with tears. It’s nothing and everything at the same time. The idea that he might never see his dad didn’t cross his mind, but it could have happened. He could have died and he didn’t even _think_ about that.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” his dad says, sounding choked up. He pulls back after a long moment and looks at Stiles very seriously. “I need to ask you if I have to arrest Derek Hale.”

“ _That’s_ the first thing you ask me when I wake up?” Stiles asks, launching himself up indignantly, which pulls his overexerted muscles. He sputters and groans.

“It was a nonconsensual bite, Stiles,” his dad says, putting a warm hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pushing him back onto the scratchy sheets of the hospital bed. “Scott was pretty damaged too, it looked a whole lot like Hale attacked you both.”

“What happened to Scott?” he demands. If Derek killed Scott, he was going to kill Derek. It’s not an exaggeration when he says he has no desire to live in a world without Scott. 

“He’s _fine_ , son. He would have been in here with you, if you hadn’t started sprouting wolfsbane in your sleep. _Speaking of which_ , you have severe aconite poisoning. Want to tell me about that? Or about the unmarked gun that Lydia had to liberate from you before bringing you in?”

“Better than severe werewolf poisoning,” Stiles says, lying his head back and sighing. “I just didn’t want to turn and the gun is a precaution. Hello, my life.” He gestures to his entire body, then the room around them. “Allison may have given it to me, but I wouldn’t say that in court.”

“That was an interesting solution to an unwanted bite, Stiles,” his dad says, seriously. “And I told you, no guns until you’re 21.”

“Yeah, well all you need is some happy thoughts and pixie dust, right?” Stiles says, ignoring the comment about the gun. It’s not like he can actually own an illegal gun, he just had it in his possession. 

“You could have died,” his dad is saying, voice edging hysterical. Stiles has the thought that he could have ended up like Gerard, dribbling black goo from every orifice.

“It’s true, the odds were against me,” Stiles responds. “I probably would have died anyway, because of my magic. I feel like you should be glad I saved my own life.” 

“And Erica’s miraculous recovery?” his dad asks. “Actually, I don’t know if I want to know.” Stiles grimaces. There was entirely too much blood on the ground for even a werewolf to heal properly, but Stiles wasn’t exactly thinking about the forensic consequences of bringing her back from the dead.

“I’m sure someone exaggerated the amount of blood found at the scene,” Stiles says. “That can be fixed before you submit the official report.” His dad gives him a sweeping look, but nods slowly. He doesn’t really have any other choice. If enough people found out that Stiles brought someone back from the brink, well. That could be very awkward.

He really doesn’t want to think about how badly the pack is freaking out right now. Stiles doesn’t know how he’s ever going to look at Erica again without seeing her throat, gaping and bloody. They’re all probably varying degrees of sad and angry. Stiles is trying not to think about it in-depth, if he does he might do something ridiculous like tear out his IV and drive to Derek’s loft. 

God, _Derek_. His dad probably wants to _shoot him_.

“Hey dad, could we just like -- remember, Derek is the poster boy for PTSD,” Stiles says. “With the death and the fire, it’s a huge trigger, he probably didn’t even know --”

“ _That_ doesn’t give me a lot of confidence -- “ his dad starts to mutter.

“He wouldn’t just attack us, he’s not _feral_ ,” Stiles finishes, hotly, trampling over the end of his dad’s sentence. His dad can’t arrest Derek, the pack would fall apart without his commanding growls and red-eyes-of-submission. His dad doesn’t argue the point, just huffs all put-upon like he _wanted_ to arrest Derek. Again.

“I need your phone,” his dad says, holding out his hand and flapping his fingers at Stiles, who just looks at it horrified.

“You’re confiscating it, _now_?” Stiles asks, he doesn’t even know where his phone _is_ at the moment. He’s wearing a hospital gown and a quick once-over of his room doesn’t reveal where the hospital staff stashed his clothes. 

“It’s _evidence_.”

“This isn’t even an official inquiry dad, you need a notepad for that.” Stiles needs that phone, he needs to get in and see if he can track where the number came from. It’s probably a burn phone, in all honesty, but maybe he and Lydia can come up with a purchase location at the very least. If the people who took Erica are local, that narrows the playing field down considerably. There’s only a limited number of places that out-of-towners stay.

“I’ll come back with a notepad, then,” his dad sighs. Stiles knows, he’s a heavy burden. “Until then, don’t _do_ anything. Just, stay here and get better and _don’t do anything_.” Stiles gives a left handed salute, trying to convey sincerity; he probably fails spectacularly.

“Doing nothing, right.” He accepts the kiss on the forehead that his dad gives him before he leaves, leaning into it.

“I need that as soon as you’re done though, seriously!” Stiles calls out to his dad’s retreating back. “I need to lead my own investigation.”

“Go to sleep, Stiles!” And with that, he’s out the door.

Sleep, right. If Stiles could sleep right now, he would be genuinely surprised. The anxiety is nearly overwhelming, he’s thinking so much it’s almost as if he’s not thinking. Thoughts flitting through his mind so fast they become white noise. 

It feels like everything is falling apart. Everything _is_ falling apart. The pack’s carefully constructed facade of nonchalance is fading, cracking, _corroding_ past the point of recognition. At the end of the day they’re still all teenagers, varying degrees of emotional maturity between them. They’ve all joked about dying at some point since joining the pack, but, now, it had almost been a reality for Erica. It _had_ been the reality. She was dead, so fucking dead. Stiles had to bring her back from the brink because someone hated them enough to _kill them_. Fuck.

It takes effort to stand, wobbling precariously, but he manages to get into the bathroom without incident. The door shuts quietly behind him as he looks at his own reflection. The person staring back at him looks half-dead and still dying. There’s no pink-tinge to his cheeks, no brightness to his eyes. He’s doing an amazing impression of a wrung-out sponge by merely existing.

The bags under his eyes are purple bruises, hair standing on end. Not to mention the IV lines that disappear under his skin. They _definitely_ add to the corpse aesthetic. He pushes the shoulder of his gown down so he can see the stark whiteness of the bandage, blood spotting the gauze. It was luck that saved him from real injury. God knows what would have happened if Derek had torn into his rotator cuff. His arm could be mangled and useless instead of just sore and bloody.

It still hasn’t really sunk in that Derek tried to kill him, or whatever that was in the warehouse. It was defensive, he knows that. Derek attacked Scott too, so it wasn’t a pack thing, it was a traumatic fucking breakdown that Stiles caused with his shitty magic. One of Derek’s wolves was dead, blood smeared everywhere, and Stiles had decided that it was a good idea to throw up a wall of flames.

The presence of Stiles’ magic has always been a trigger for Derek. They’ve made a lot of progress since the first time he used magic around the pack, but it’s not like Derek has been actively trying to get over his traumas. Even in the loft, when he accidently set the map on fire, Stiles thought Derek was going to lose it.

Stiles presses his forehead to the cold glass, tries to take shallow breaths. He should have thought about it, should have erected a barrier of ice or stone to hold him off instead of fire. God, he sucks so fucking much. What is _wrong_ with him?

There’s a light tap on the door and Stiles makes it out of the bathroom to see Lydia entering the room slowly. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but she isn’t crying anymore. The look on her face is torn between anger and relief. Stiles can see the war before she closes off her makes it carefully blank. 

Just to be an asshole, he stretches out his arms, trying not to wince as his shoulder pulls. 

“C’mere, Lyds,” he says, tone soft. Her facade buckles, mouth turning down sharply. There’s an intake of breath before she launches herself at him and sags against him. 

“Don’t fucking do that again,” she snaps, pushing against him just to pull him back in and bury her head against his good shoulder. She’s shaking. Stiles pets her head, unsure of how to handle it.

“I had to save her,” he inhales and exhales, tries to count his heartbeats. “I couldn’t let Derek lose someone else.”

“We almost lost _you_ , Stiles. I sincerely hope it was worth it,” Lydia says, voice low, but he can still hear it crackling in her throat. 

“I’m alive aren’t I?”

“ _Barely_.”

“Barely is good enough for me,” he says, hand moving over and over and over her hair. “Seriously, I’m okay. Erica is alive and I’m _not_ a werewolf.”

“No big? Jesus. Derek’s losing his shit,” she says. pulling back so she can look at him with big, amused eyes. “He came in here earlier even though he can smell your aconite-infused ass clear down the hall. He spent about two minutes staring helplessly at your unconscious body before he went and puked.”

Stiles’ eyebrows migrate up his forehead.

“No kidding, he’s been pissed and guilty ever since he snapped out of it,” she says, continuing. “Since he couldn’t lurk outside your room, he’s opted for being creepy at Scott. It’s honestly less weird when he does it to you. It must be that mutual attraction thing you’ve got going on.”

Stiles laughs at that. 

“Maybe, or maybe it’s because I don’t mind and it freaks Scott out. Remember when he lurked outside the school when the betas were first turned, to ‘monitor’ them? Scott was constantly pissed at him for that.”

Lydia bites her lip and nods, looking at him again. 

“How did you do it?” she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. “I didn’t even know I had magic like that in me.”

“I have no idea,” Stiles admits. “I didn’t even think about it, I just _did_ it. I had to get her back.” 

“You did well,” Lydia says, squeezing him one more time before leading him back to his bed. “You should get some sleep.”

She gives him a small smile before she’s out the door, closing it behind her. There’s so much more they should probably talk about: what happened with Erica, his magic -- _that dream_. He can’t bring himself to bring her back right now, though. He just wants a few hours to decompress before the pack gets together. They have to figure out who tried to kill Erica and why, what they want with the Hale pack. Then, he needs to figure out if the dream was prophetic or just whacky feedback from siphoning off Lydia’s magic. Goodie.

He’s going to nap and then, he’s going to pester Melissa until she lets him go home.

 

Melissa won’t let him go, despite his most irritating demands, so he waits until she’s off shift to sneak out of his room. They dumped his clothes off a few hours before. It was just his binder and pants. The shirt he stripped off at the crime scene was taken as evidence. Which kind of fucking sucks. He liked that shirt. He’s lost entirely too many shirts in the name of supernatural bullshit. But, then, Stiles thinks he doesn’t actually need to know what it looked like with his and Erica’s blood mixing on the fabric. 

It takes him 15 minutes to put on the binder with limited use of his right hand. He shimmies into his pants and stuffs his sock-clad feet into his shoes, slipping out into the hall.

It’s the wrong side of midnight, which makes the hallways even more creepy. Most of the lights are off, casting deep shadows into the pockets of the walls and corners. He’s not sure where Scott is, so he calls up a spell he rarely uses: an earth-based manifestation that allows him to feel the pack connection. It revs in his chest, humming quietly, comforting. It doesn’t seem like he’s experiencing any side-effects from the spell except for the binding runes burning a little hot under his shirt.

It takes him to a private room, not too far away. Probably just far enough away that Scott couldn’t smell the wolfsbane from Stiles’ room. The humming gets more insistent the closer he gets, redoubling in intensity, with the distinct feeling of _alpha_. Stiles reels back, hopefully too far from the room that they haven’t noticed yet. 

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to face Derek yet. Actually, he _knows_ he’s ready to face Derek, he just doesn’t know if he’s ready to face Derek’s _guilt_. God, there will be so much guilt. Not that Stiles can blame him. If he attacked two of his pack members out as a result of misguided protection instincts, he would feel it too, he knows. It was like Derek was possessed, eyes flaring red, but unresponsive. Just the thought makes a shiver slow-crawl up Stiles’ spine. 

There’s a slight tremor to his hands and he’s painfully aware that he’s only wearing his binder, but he moves into the room anyway, as tall as possible. 

Scott and Derek look tense, bodies tipped towards each other slightly. Scott’s in bed, but sitting up, spine rigid. There’s frustration written in to both of their faces, eyes glowing red and yellow respectively. They both go slack when they see him, eyes zeroing in on the bandage around his shoulder like a missile target. Stiles can practically feel the guilt permeating from Derek so Stiles deliberating ignores him, eyes focusing on Scott.

As far as alpha-inflicted injuries go, he’s healing really well. There’s a few bite marks on his neck, as if Derek got his muzzle around the back of Scott’s head and bit down. Lacerations cover his arms, but they’re shallow, pink scratches. Stiles doesn’t understand why he’s even still in the hospital, but it’s possible that Melissa insisted that he stay for observation. 

Stiles resists the urge to cover his chest where his boobs disappear under the binder. The tension in the room is giving him an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability while he stands there. He strides to Scott’s side and hugs him fiercely. It didn’t actually occur to him at the time that Derek might have torn Scott apart, but now. Well, alphas can do irreparable damage to betas who challenge them. 

“Hey, you okay?” Stiles asks.

Scott huffs and hugs him back just as desperately, arms almost squeezing too tightly.

“Yeah, I’m alive,” Scott says. The look he gives Stiles isn’t a smile, but it’s close. “You’re alive too, I see.” Scott’s eyes slide over Stiles’ face, so that he can glare past Stiles at Derek. Stiles pushes back and looks at Derek, who is looking at the floor with a dead expression. 

Stiles sighs and tips his forehead to rest on Scott’s shoulder. 

“Don’t,” he says, before drawing away, looking at Scott and then looking at Derek. “Seriously, don’t. Scott, don’t blame Derek.” Derek’s head shoots up, eyebrows poised to object. “ _Derek_ , don’t blame Derek. I’m fine.”

“You could have died,” Scott says, voice sharp with accusation. Derek’s eyes are hard on Stiles’ as he nods along, in agreement. Stiles shoves a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I didn't, so drop it,” Stiles says. They both shut up, even though it’s obvious that they both want to say more. Self flagellation on Derek’s part, motherly concern on Scott’s. They’re both varying degrees of _completely_ hopeless when it comes to Stiles being hurt. He’d be flattered, if it wasn’t so irritating.

“So, what’s the news?” Stiles asks. He can’t stand the way the silence is stretching between them. “When can you go home? Your mom said I’m home free after tomorrow, as long as I go easy on my shoulder. We need to regroup and figure shit out.”

No one says anything, Scott and Derek are having a stare down over Stiles’ shoulder. There’s something wrong, Stiles thinks, backing up so he can watch them both. The tension in the air is thickening again, swelling in the small space of the room. Scott’s hands are curled into the hospital sheets. He breaks eye contact with Derek to look at Stiles.

“Boyd and Erica are gone,” he says, mouth a hard line of disapproval. Derek is looking at the floor. 

“What the fuck do you mean, _they’re gone_?” Stiles demands, veins turning to ice. There’s a hard lump in his throat that he can’t clear away no matter how many times he swallows. 

“Erica and Boyd left,” Derek says, finally, after the silence has stretched between them. Scott looks furious, jaw clenching every so often like he wants to say something, but doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

“Please tell me that you stopped them, that you chained them up and didn’t let them --”

“What was I supposed to do, Stiles?” Derek demands, head snapping up so he’s glaring at Stiles. The room shrinks around Stiles, compressing against his chest. He can’t believe that he did all of that, nearly _killed himself_ , so that Derek could _let them go_.

“You’re supposed to _stop them_ , Derek,” he says, voice low and angry. He can’t get that damn dream out of his head, now. Their bodies tearing apart. He knows what it’s like to have Erica’s blood cooling against his skin. “I saved Erica, I _brought her back to life_ and now you’re telling me that you just let your betas run off when there’s something out there that _attacked and killed_ one of them already?”

“That’s not how it works, Stiles, if a beta wants to leave their alpha, their alpha doesn’t fight them over it.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, especially when their _lives are in danger_ \--”

“Their lives are always in danger, Stiles!” Derek half-yells, striding towards Stiles, coming so close that Stiles can feel the heat from his body. Scott jumps up, but doesn’t come between them, just watches, body tense and ready to move in case he needs to. Derek’s voice is a low growl, a violent thrum that pierces the air between them. “All of your lives have _been_ in danger, ever since I started this pack. I should have just let myself become human, saved everyone the trouble.”

“You really wanted to let Jackson and Lydia fend for themselves?” Scott demands, voice tight with anger. “You think you being human would have been a _better_ alternative? So the Argents could put Jackson down like a dog?”

“Boyd would have died without you. _Scott_ would have died without you,” Stiles adds, unable to keep the ire out of his voice. It’s sharp like knives, grinding in his throat. His veins are burning with the desire to scream and rail against Derek for his obvious stupidity. “Isaac would be stuck in his shitty home, getting the shit beat out of him by his shitty dad. Erica could already be dead from the seizures --”

Stiles can’t actually believe that Derek would rather have _no_ power than saved four people. Four people who really fucking matter to Stiles and to each other. Who _need_ each other to lean on and get through this. That when Derek should be being supportive and _there for them_ , he’s talking about regretting the bite, the one thing that kept their lives _stable_. Stiles can’t fucking believe that Derek didn’t stop Erica and Boyd.

“She already died,” Derek says, eyes snapping between Scott and Stiles like he doesn’t know who to defend himself against. It might be unfair of them to gang up on Derek like this, throw this all in his face, but Stiles is so _sick_ of this routine. 

“ _She wasn’t_ , because _I_ saved her, but she might as well be now, since you fucking let her go, you asshole,” Stiles seethes, stepping into Derek’s space so that he can push against him. He doesn’t go far, his muscles are wound tight, bunched with tension. Stiles’ arm can only contract and release so much with the bandage and the bite. “I’m sick of your fucking self-pity. Sucks that you were forced into this position, I’m _so fucking sorry_ for you, but you need to nut the fuck up. You might hate being alpha, but you’re the only one we have.”

“Stiles --” and that’s Scott. That’s the voice Scott uses when he thinks Stiles has gone too far, a soft tone that’s supposed to bring Stiles back down to earth. There’s clear hurt behind the anger in Derek’s eyes, but Stiles doesn’t care, he doesn’t _fucking care_. 

“You could be so good at this, Derek,” Stiles says, sharply. Ignoring Scott. “But you refuse to listen to us. Not with the kanima and now, not with Jennifer. All the humans can see it, but you can’t. You refuse to believe that Jennifer is anything, but perfectly good. I don’t believe that, I don’t believe in coincidences like this.”

“Jennifer has us under a spell,” Scott says, gently, laying a hand on Derek’s shoulder. Derek flinches away, eyes wide. Scott fishes out the obsidian arrow from under his shirt where it’s hanging from a thin strip of leather. “There’s a way to fix it, to understand.” 

Scott’s eyes are big and appealing. There’s something about him that just demands a certain level of trust, the softness that lends nothing to his ego in times like this. It’s more than Stiles can do, so he lets Scott appeal to Derek’s empathy while he reaches into his pocket and draws out the raven, shoving it into Derek’s hand. Derek jerks like he wasn’t expecting it, turns his pale eyes to Stiles. Stiles keeps his hand around Derek’s wrist as folds his fingers down around the stone.

“Fucking wear this or I’ll fucking poison you with wolfsbane,” he threatens, trying for a joking tone, but it scrapes raw in his throat and ends up coming out far more angry than he intends. It’s okay, though, because Derek doesn’t drop the necklace, just looks at Stiles’ hand on his. 

“We need you to do this, Derek,” Scott says. “We need you to trust us. Put faith in your pack.”

“Think of it as making up for the kanima thing,” Stiles adds. Scott shoots him a look that suggests that he’s really not helping. Stiles’ mouth snaps shut. He’s still holding onto Derek’s arm. It takes effort to make himself release it. He just wants to trace patterns on Derek’s skin, pet him, and make it all better. 

“Fine,” Derek says, gruffly, hand clenching down on the raven. A pleased thrill goes through Stiles. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

 

It takes 9 hours for Derek to climb through Stiles’ window after he’s released from the hospital. Stiles can feel him, the low thrum of alpha from all the way down the street. It feels amplified today, vibrating up his spine. His magic is still suppressed under the seals, but he can feel it coming up to the surface of his skin, making him almost too-warm in its insistence. 

He doesn’t turn from his computer, but his homework stops making sense, just a parade of words that he’s not bothering to read as he waits. The rhythm of his magic gets faster, a near vibration, right before he hears a body hit his roof. Fingers tap softly on his window and Stiles’ stomach tumbles anxiously as he makes his way over and opens it for Derek, stepping back to let him in. 

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s wearing the shirt Derek let him borrow. Derek’s eyes sweep over him, landing on his covered shoulder before moving back up to his face. For some reason, the air feels tense between them, strained with a touch of vulnerability. It makes Stiles unconsciously hunch inward.

“I’m sorry,” he says, exhaling. Stiles blinks, surprised. 

“For?” Stiles prompts. There’s a lot to be sorry for. Even more that Derek probably thinks he should be sorry for when he really shouldn’t. 

“Everything,” Derek says. He looks so small, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched. There’s a careful blankness to his face that betrays how uncomfortable he’s feeling. Stiles wants to go over, smooth the wrinkles out of his forehead. So, he does exactly that, intestines tangling up in knots. 

“I forgive you,” Stiles says, sweeping his fingers over the ridge of Derek’s heavy brow, the sharp cut of his cheekbones. Derek presses into it, face relaxing so minutely, Stiles doesn’t know if he’s doing it consciously. “I’m sorry for yelling at you at the hospital.” 

“I needed it,” Derek huffs out, watching Stiles with eyes softer than Stiles has ever seen. A stupid fondness that makes his eyes seem to glow. Stiles feels too big in his skin, suffocated by the tension between them. This would be the perfect moment to kiss, the perfect crescendo. 

Stiles steps away.

“So, how do you feel?” he asks, walking over to his desk, suddenly self conscious. He probably smells like indecision and hormones, confusion and want layered together. It’s all there, under his skin, itching to escape. Stiles feels like he’s orbiting Derek, just off kilter.

“I feel clear,” Derek says, pulling his hands out of his pockets so that he can draw out the raven from under his shirt. Stiles can tell, there’s no glassiness to his eyes, no far away look there either. It makes Stiles feel warm, accomplished. His spell worked, all of his intent -- 

“Good,” Stiles says, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. The moment stretches between them, tense, but not uncomfortable. Stiles doesn’t know what to do next. It feels like they’re standing on the precipice of something huge. He doesn’t know if he wants to be the one to tip them over the edge or if he wants Derek to do it for them. So far, it’s been him with his heart on a platter. Every time he’s kissed Derek, defended Derek, saved Derek. Every argument for safety and trust announced his feelings, his intent. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re here,” Stiles says, instead of waiting for Derek to do something, _anything_. He can wait, he realizes. “This thing would be a bitch to clean on my own.” Without hesitation, he strips off his shirt. There’s only a moment of panic about his binder before it settles. Now, he just feels hot with the weight of Derek’s gaze, but it’s not embarrassment, it’s something far more intimate than that.

He makes slow work of unclipping the gauze, unwinding it from around his shoulder. He makes two passes before Derek’s hand is hot on his wrist, body nearly pressed to Stiles’ side completely. Stiles flinches minutely, because he wasn’t expecting Derek to be so close so quickly, but he leans into Derek’s warmth. 

The gauze passes over his shoulder as Derek starts to unwind it. Stiles lets him take the gauze off and stare at the bite where it’s angry shades of red. It isn’t a neat ring of punctures, some drag over his deltoid and cut through his pec. There’s a sting as Derek touches it, but his veins turn black in an instant, taking away the pain.

“I said clean it, don’t fondle it,” Stiles says, a half-hearted protest. He’s enjoying the attention. Derek’s eyes catch his before he pushes Stiles over to the bed, making him sit. He leaves the bedroom, clattering around in the bathroom until he comes out with peroxide and cotton balls, a new roll of gauze balanced on top.

“You know peroxide kills the good germs, too?” Stiles asks, distracting himself from where Derek kneels between his legs and starts dabbing at the lacerations. All he gets is a nod in response and a grunt as Derek works. The way Derek’s head is down makes it so that Stiles’ nose is practically buried in his hair, the scent of his shampoo surrounding him.

Stiles has the ridiculous urge to rest his cheek on top of Derek’s head, take a nap there.

Derek’s done cleaning his wound quickly, surprising efficiency for someone who never has to deal with human healing. He wraps it up quickly, it looks good, tight and efficient. Derek hasn’t moved yet. He remains kneeling between Stiles’ legs, head tilted down to look at the floor. Stiles watches the smudge of lashes over his cheekbone, the muscle in his jaw working.

Derek shakes his head, a noise distressingly close to a whine coming from his throat. He grabs Stiles around his waist with hot hands just a touch too rough and pulls him close. He rests his forehead against Stiles’ collar, breathing warm air against Stiles’ skin. Stiles can’t move, can’t breathe. He wonders if Derek can feel the change in the air.

“I could have killed you,” Derek says, voice so low he’s nearly whispering. The sound still crackles in the space between them. He pulls back so that he’s looking at Stiles.

“I’m not dead,” Stiles reminds him. There’s no chance of infection with the sheer volume of antibiotics Melissa decided to load him up with. His shoulder stings and stretches, but it will heal without significant muscle damage. He can deal with scarring as long as he can do a full or, at least, partial rotation of his arm.

“Thank god,” Derek says. Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat. His fingers are starting to tingle happily.

“Are you possessed?” he asks, seriously. “You’re thanking me, apologizing to me. I don’t know if I can handle you being all _amicable_. Are you going to break out in hives?”

“Probably,” Derek says, laughing. The sound makes Stiles’ breath lodge in his throat. He wants Derek to do _something_. 

“I feel like we should kiss right now,” Stiles admits, lowly. Derek looks startled, but not surprised. He probably expected Stiles to be thinking it, but not to say it outright. He can’t help it. The urge is so fierce it’s making his head tingle, that adrenaline rush right before something stupid happens. Saying that was a little bit stupid, but Derek is smiling anyway, a half-smile that makes Stiles’ stomach clench. 

“It would be the perfect moment to,” Derek says, looking up Stiles from under his eyelashes before he rolls his eyes and does a little lunge at Stiles’ face so that their mouths meet quickly, open. Stiles can’t help the happy moan that escapes him, the air that he breaths into Derek’s mouth as he goes pliant with relief.

Derek pulls back, but his hands stay on Stiles’ face, steadying. His thumb presses against the sharp corner of Stiles’ jaw, while his other hand cradles the back of his head, fingers in his hair, hot on his skin.

“Happy?” he asks. Stiles can hear the way he catches his breath. It makes him feel too big and too small all at once, the way he wants to explode outward. Even his magic is vibrating up to the surface of his skin, insistent and needy in his veins. He discharges some of it in the air, it crackles around them in the form of electricity. 

“You have no idea,” Stiles says, and he’s not lying. Derek doesn’t know how much Stiles cares about him. The lengths he would go to for him. There are things that are better left unsaid, though, and Stiles’ ill-advised, absolutely unconditional love for Derek is one of them. 

Even if Derek could love him back, there’s no way that this is a good time for any of that. Not after another one of Derek’s girlfriends ended up villainous. Not when he hasn’t emotionally recovered from the first girlfriend that fucked him over and tried to destroy his pack. Now there was another one with a hidden agenda -- 

This wasn’t the time for love confessions. 

Derek seems to know everything that Stiles isn’t saying, though. The look in his eyes is soft and sad. There’s something there that Stiles hasn’t seen before, something more than a casual fondness. He can’t think about that, what it might mean. If he does, he might not let Derek go at all. 

Derek really needs to stop kneeling between Stiles’ legs. 

“I should go,” Derek says, after a long time of them gazing at each other, tension mounting between them. It’s good, that’s good. He should definitely leave before Stiles does something stupid like _mount_ _him_. 

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Stiles says, mouth dry. Derek gets up, with a quick squeeze to Stiles’ arm, and kisses him softly on the head. 

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

“‘Night, Derek.”

 

“I’ve got to tell you, I’m extremely at odds with myself!” Stiles yells at the stairs as he lets himself into Scott’s house. The downstairs is quiet so, Stiles assumes Scott’s in his room. Probably _not_ doing homework or research or anything productive. It only takes a few seconds to bound into Scott’s bedroom. He promptly jerks to a stop. Allison and Isaac look up at him with a wince, Scott rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, hey, am I interrupting?” Stiles asks, noticing the tension in the room. He’s already angled himself to escape, long limbs posed to run away. There’s absolutely no way he’s killing his ‘Derek kissed me’ buzz with weird, love triangle vibbin’. Scott shakes his head. 

“No, we’re just leaving,” Allison says, quickly. She bites her lip and shoots a look at Scott, then Isaac. “Leaving separately, definitely separately. Good to see you, Stiles.”

She flashes a grin at him and kisses his cheek before leaving. Her skirt swooshes prettily when she escapes. Stiles can see Isaac count to five in his head before he follows, clapping Stiles on his good shoulder. Stiles is _so confused_. 

“What the fuck was that?” he asks. Scott shrugs. 

“I think we were supposed to talk about the weirdness between us, but they were just like ‘we’ve been hanging out’ and I was like ‘I know’ and then no one said anything, just stared awkwardly, and then you ran in, so I have no idea.” 

Stiles winces in sympathy. That’s fucking awkward. The girl you’re still in love with and the guy who you’ve gotten to be pretty close with doing _god knows what_. Scott caught in the middle, like a fish in a trap. 

“Wow, that’s not helpful at _all_ ,” Stiles says, shaking his head. He wants to know what’s going on with Allison and Isaac almost as much as Scott, but not because he’s emotionally invested. He’s just nosey. Scott nods and bites his lip before he shrugs again. A violent bounce of his shoulders that’s more like he’s shaking it off, before looking up at Stiles. 

“So, why are you at odds? Does it have something to do with the fact that I can smell Derek on you?” There’s an actual smirk on Scott’s lips. Stiles’ mouth drops open, he sniffs himself. 

“You can smell that?” he asks. “I mean, yeah, he was over last night. He _kissed me_.”

“I thought that’s happened before?”

“No, I mean, yeah? But, the other times I kissed him and only twice did he kiss me back, but he _kissed me_. Actively, kissed me and there were apologies and smiling and, shit.”

“Holy fucking shit, dude!” Scott says, jumping up and clapping Stiles on the shoulder. His bad shoulder. Stiles groans and buckles under the weight of Scott’s palm, collapsing onto the bed. Stiles understands his excitement. Scott’s been there for every phase of Stiles’ developing crush. From Stiles’ intense dislike of basically everything Derek did, to grudging acceptance, to full-on boner-ville. 

“Ow, fuck, don’t hurt the human,” he says. Scott looks sheepish, but he’s still grinning like a lunatic. Stiles grins back, because he can’t help it. His cheeks have actually grown sore from grinning so damn hard. His insides feel fluttery and happy and it’s so dumb. 

“Dude, you’ve got it bad,” Scott says, nudging his cheek with a finger. Stiles sighs dreamily, thinks of the way Derek’s hands felt on him, the warm weight of them. He’s thought about that few minutes of time all day, replaying it over and over in his head. 

“Tell me about it. I, like, freak out anytime I even think about it, I might die just from the memory alone. I don’t even need to get in his pants, because dude, the way he _kisses._ I’ve found Jesus.”

“No way anyone kisses good enough to _not_ need to get into their pants, Stiles, that’s just ridiculous,” Scott says, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Derek does,” Stiles says, very seriously. 

“So, why are you at odds?” Scott asks again. That makes Stiles stop grinning, mouth tightening into a flat line. 

“I’m happy, like outrageously, but Erica and Boyd are gone, and Jennifer is still being Jennifer. It’s not over, it’s not even close to over.” He texted Boyd the other day and didn’t get a response. It could mean that they’re just done with the pack, _everyone_ in the pack. Or, it could mean that they’re in danger, that whoever took Erica now has them _both_. It could mean that Stiles saved her life just to give her another opportunity to die. That makes him feel nauseous.

“You can’t do anything about Erica and Boyd,” Scott says, laying a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “They made their choice. Derek shouldn’t have let them go, but he has a point. A little bit of a point, at least. What was he supposed to do? Tie them down?”

“With wolfsbane infused rope,” Stiles says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Their parents reported them missing yesterday.” His dad had another pot of coffee brewing this morning when he told him, like Stiles didn’t already know they were gone. His eyebrows were disappointed when he learned that Stiles hadn’t bothered to tell him that they voluntarily left the pack.

Sometimes Stiles gets so caught up in pack business that he forgets that his dad needs to know things. It happened with the kanima, when Stiles failed to tell his dad Lydia was a banshee and that she was there when Peter bit Jackson. He was so worried about convincing Derek and the others that it completely slipped his mind.

“We’ll find them.”

“I didn’t have any luck last time,” Stiles reminds him. “She was in the city the whole time and none of my spells worked.” It’s not like Stiles is a particularly weak spell caster either. He’s been training with Deaton a long time. He knows the insides and the outsides of every spell a person can learn, he has a definite grasp on rune magic. Everything learned, everything taught, he knows most of it. 

“It’s because whoever took her was more powerful than you,” Scott says, slightly apologetic. It’s true.

“Powerful enough to keep a pack under a thrall for weeks,” Stiles says, looking Scott in the eye. Stiles already made this connection, he’s been waiting for Scott to make it as well. “Powerful enough to keep an alpha of Derek’s caliber in love with her.” Stiles can see Scott visibly swallow. 

“She’s the druid, isn’t she? The one that killed the twin’s emissary.” 

“How do you know about that?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t remember telling Scott about the conversation with Ethan. It happened right before Erica was taken, he got distracted.

“We talk, at school,” Scott says, looking happily embarrassed. “They said I have a strong wolf. We talk about werewolf things. I guess their pack kind of treated them like shit because they were bitten and abandoned. Deaton gave them both anchor runes so they can be omegas and keep their shifting power.”

“Dude, taking the initiative, I’m totally digging that,” Stiles says. “But, yeah, she has to be. Normal magic users aren’t that strong. So she’s a druid with the power of at least two alphas. We might not even be able to touch her.”

“We have a pack,” Scott says. They have the bare bones of a pack. Three wolves, four if Peter gets counted, but Stiles sincerely doubts he would be there for the fight. A human hunter, a fire-starter who has most of his magic locked up tightly, and a banshee who can’t do much offensively besides aim and shoot a gun. 

“She might have a pack, we have no idea,” Stiles says. “There’s no reason for her to do this. Why make the entire pack magically like her, then try and kill one?”

“Making us compliant would mean we went with her easily. No suspicion. If I was still under her spell, I would go with her wherever she asked me to.”

“That doesn’t explain _why_ ,” Stiles says, pulling at his hair. This circular reasoning is getting real old, real fast. “Who do we possibly know that we could provoke a vendetta in?” Scott’s eyebrows shoot up, giving Stiles an incredulous look.

“Really?” 

“I’ve been trying to give him the benefit of the doubt,” Stiles says. He’s been deliberately ignoring the idea that Peter could be behind this all. Revenge for killing him, the best way to hurt Derek would be through his pack. But, why _Jennifer_. 

“It doesn’t matter, we have no way to even connect the two right now,” Scott says. Point for Scott. All the points for Scott. 

“So, we need to get Jennifer, and then we’ll get whoever she’s working with,” Stiles says. He needs to make an obsidian necklace for Isaac. “It will take almost 5 hours for the necklace to purge Isaac’s magic of her influence, then we can confront her.”

“At the school?” Scott says. Stiles shrugs.

“Too many entrances and exits, but we don’t have a lot of choice. Jennifer Blake doesn’t exist in any system I’ve skimmed through, at least not in Beacon Hills. The address she’s listed under with the school is an empty house. There’s a chance she’s squatting, but there’s no guarantee we’ll catch her there.”

“Right, so definitely the school. I’ll talk to Allison about backup.”

“No Lydia,” Stiles says, quickly. “I don’t want her to be there.”

“You know she’ll be pissed,” Scott says.

“Better pissed than dead.”

 

 

They probably should have planned this out better. They _definitely_ shouldn’t have ran in without a plan, especially when Derek didn’t answer their texts. Their alpha would have been the best weapon against her, but Stiles was so eager to have this _done with_ that he went with Scott’s suggestion that they go in on their own. Bad move. 

Stiles checks his waistband and slides a new magazine full of silver bullet rounds into the gun. He could be a cool guy and let the old magazine drop to the floor dramatically, but that would give away his position and he doesn’t need _that_ happening. Of course, bullets are nearly useless. When Stiles shot at her, her magic intercepted it, bullets bouncing away harmlessly. Stiles wants to wait to use _his_ magic as a last resort. Just in case he needs to burn away the bounds.

“I don’t like being underestimated, children!” Jennifer yells, heels hitting the linoleum floor with purpose as she strides down the hall. Stiles peaks his head around the corner, scanning over the scene quickly. Isaac is shifted, snarling and fighting against thick ropes of vines that are sprouting purple wolfsbane flowers, strung up between lockers. The poison he’s inhaling is making his struggles weaker and weaker, body slowly going limp. 

Scott is being pressed into the wall by a slimy tendril of sentient water. It’s locked tight around his throat. Not pressing enough to make him lose consciousness or kill him, but enough that his muscle bulge and bunch with effort as he tries to pry it away. 

Fuck. 

Stiles reaches deep down, trying to get at his magic. The sounds of struggling from the hall are distracting. The idea that she might turn the corner any minute and find him is making him anxious. Stiles can’t concentrate enough to get past the barriers the binding on his skin evokes so that he can get at the full power of his magic.

When he sticks his head out again she spots him, mouth widening in a cruel grin. Stiles moves, ducking, trying to draw out his magic while he points the gun at her. 

“Just, stay there,” he says, ignoring the tremor in his hands. He’s not a fan of guns, not really, but there’s something to be said for the reassuring weight of it. 

She prowls closer, mouth stretched in a grin. _Fuck it_ , he thinks, throwing the safety on and tucking it into his waist band. He pulls out his magic, thrusting it into the air between them. The wall of flames he erects between them is pathetically weak, magic barely surging past the runes. A gush of wind rushes through the hallway and extinguishes his fire. In a second, she’s in front of him, fingers coming around his jaw in a painful grip. She pulls his face towards her with surprising strength, making him stumble forward.

“Having issues with your magic, _Stephanie_?” Jennifer asks, saying his birth name with a snarl. The runes on his chest respond to her voice, prickling with heat. He can feel her slimy water moving under his shirt, up his torso to where the runes are written. “Can’t quite get a grasp on it, can you, _Stephanie_?” 

The water is pressing, pushing, insistent -- It surges through him, making his knees buckle with the force of it. Jennifer watches him fall, watches as the water cleanses his skin of the binding magic. Stiles’ fire swims to the surface of his skin: hot, wrong, and _burning_ him up from the inside out, pushing up through him. He grits his teeth against the pressure of it, the razor-sharp pain. 

“You know how hard it was to find your birth name?” she asks, glaring at him while he’s writhing on the ground. It feels like his skin is going to flay off. A tendril of water grabs at the gun and tears it from his waistband. It skitters across the tile as it’s discarded. “Can’t perform a decent spell without it. At first, I thought it was cleverness on your part, hiding your real name so it couldn’t be used against you, but no, it’s because you’re a _boy now_.” 

“You know how easy it was to get your pack under my control?” she asks, crouching down so that she’s level with him. The fire under his skin is making him glow faintly. He’s never felt so full. He can feel the magic reverberating through every nerve ending, through every atom. Her eyes are disinterested as she watches him go super nova. “They were so easy to manipulate, especially that alpha of yours. It’s so much better for the spell when the person is already in love, you don’t have to create any feelings, just _redirect them_.” 

The look on her face is pure triumph. Stiles’ head reels, unable to really comprehend what she’s saying. Derek was in love already? Chances are she’s _lying_ to him to get a reaction, but he can’t help the hopeful feeling he gets. He grits his teeth. He can’t let her worm her way under his skin. He has to focus, process, formulate a plan. Try not to explode from magical overload. Good plan.

“Of course, there’s no fooling you is there? So eager to get Derek for yourself, suspicious of anyone else that gets close,” she says, still evil-villain monologuing. He’s glad for the stall for time. Every attempt he makes at wrangling his magic under control is unsuccessful. It slips through his grasp, trying to move _out_ of him. Which, he’s pretty sure is impossible. 

It seems like she knows what he’s doing, the way her eyes track his face, watching his internal struggle. He gets it, _barely_ , grabs it like a lifeline, feels the tingle in his forearms before he snaps his focus to Jennifer and channels the energy to just _explode_.

Jennifer falls back with a screech, her water slithering away from him, steam rising from the tendrils His forearms are sheathed in flames, far stronger than the weak wall he made earlier. Stiles doesn’t think she expected it, the way her eyes dart between his arms and his face. It doesn’t make sense, she erased the runes. She practically brought out his magic. Maybe she expected it not to hurt her, but _Stiles_ wants to hurt her so badly he can practically taste it. His magic responds to his intent. Stiles can feel the burn of it crackling in the air.

Stiles manifests fireballs in his palm and flings them while he moves away, trying to get to the other end of the hall. If he can get to Scott, free him, or burn up the wolfsbane surrounding Isaac -- 

Jennifer’s recovered from the shock. Her water snakes out to meet his magic with a hiss, steaming out until the air is heavy with humidity. Sweat forms on his hairline, slides down his face, into his eyes, stinging. 

There’s a piercing screech as the fire alarm goes off, sprinklers coming to life, raining down water on them. Jennifer smirks again, coming towards him confidently. With a wave of her hands, she manipulates the water coming from the sprinklers. It hardens into sharp spikes of ice and presses against him, forcing him to move back. There’s blood from where it presses into his skin, sharp as daggers. On the way, she grabs the gun, though it’s redundant, considering he has icicles pressing against every vital organ.

“I want to congratulate you for what you did with Erica,” she says. Her water surges forward, flinging him against the wall. The plaster cracks when his body meets it. A dent forms from his weight and the force of the throw, winding him completely. He groans and tries to stand again, but falters, legs refusing to bear weight. The water moves against him again, pressing him back into the wall. “Bringing her back. You’re more powerful than we thought.”

“We?” Stiles asks. He can feel the liquid slime curl around his neck with the slightest threatening pressure. It smells familiar, like sewer and rot, like what Erica could smell before she died. Stiles feels sick.

“It’s such a pretty name though,” she says, ignoring him.

“ _Stephanie_ ,” she says it slow, like she’s trying to taste it. His magic responds with a twitch, flowing out, urging him forward like it wants to surge into her. He watches with detached horror as it swirls under his skin, warm oranges and reds, trying to break free. She grins, feral.

“That’s enough of that,” she says, with a flick of her wrist. Stiles feels the breath leave him as he empties, magic stifled without a trace. There’s a hard wall behind his sternum, blocking it. It feels like heartbreak all over again, like he’s cracking down the middle. It sends him into a panic, lungs starting to drown. The water pinning him in place is amplifying his attack, hands and feet numb with the surge of adrenaline that washes through him. His vision is turning grey around the edge.

“God, you are pathetic,” she says, while Stiles fights to breathe. It’s nearly a relief when she gathers water into her palm and presses it over his nose and mouth. He can feel it slither into his orifices, filling him up with her magic and ill-intent. His vision blackens, lungs bursting, and he falls into it willingly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that I went this far without mentioning that the series name is [Stop and Say You Love Me](http://youtu.be/Le48mPgkgmU) by Evans Blue.

When Stiles comes to, he’s hanging from his wrists in a dark room, toes barely dragging the floor. Light filters through the tall windows weakly, barely hitting the floor. If he had to guess, it’s either late afternoon or early morning. It was late afternoon when they went to confront Jennifer, but there’s no telling how long he’s been knocked out for. He’s nauseous from the pain, mouth dry and head pounding. His shoulders are aching, the bite throbbing so badly it’s practically numb. He can feel the wetness of blood cooling on his shirt, the barely-healed lacerations ripping open from the angle his arms are at. 

When he gets enough energy to pick up his head, his veins spike with adrenaline. Lydia is directly across from him in the same position, but hitched higher, her feet completely off the ground, bringing them to eye level. Her entire body is limp. Stiles can see dark blood matted in hair around the curve of her skull. 

He fights down the panic, trying to reassure himself that she’s not dead, she’s just unconscious. There’s no way for him to find out, but what good would she be dead. Why did Jennifer bring her? Stiles’ eyes cast around the room, looking for Scott or Isaac or Allison. There’s no sign of them. In the corner, though, there’s two bodies chained to a beam, back to back, both unconscious with their chins to their chest. Relief floods through Stiles at the sight of Erica’s bright hair. 

God damn it, he was right, he was so right. Jennifer caught them, just like he knew she would. Whatever she wanted Erica for must have been important if she expended the energy to go after two wolves. It hurts to keep his head up, so he lets it hang and spots the runes under their feet. Most he doesn’t know, but there’s some for transference, transmutation -- a whole lot of power. There’s ‘death’ repeated over and over and Stiles watches it, dread building in his stomach until he’s dizzy with anxiety.

He reaches for his magic, tries to find a hole in the barrier that Jennifer erected between him and his magic. See if he can pull a trickle of energy out from behind it. Maybe he can melt the chains, get free so he can get to the others. He’s concentrating so hard, he doesn’t notice Jennifer until she’s standing behind Lydia, watching him with an intense gaze. He didn’t hear her enter the room. 

“Now’s not the time for that,” she says and she waves her hand at him. The wall between him and his magic strengthens. He feels desolation so complete it’s almost painful. He chokes back a groan, panic building as he blindly searches for his energy. It’s quite possibly the worst feeling he’s ever felt in his life, now he’s felt it twice. 

She grins wickedly at him.

“How does that feel, Stephanie?” she asks, spitting that name at him like acid. “Does it feel like you’re empty, hurting?” She chuckles, making her way over to a pile of things he hadn’t noticed before, drawing out magical items quickly. Pots of herbs and dark writing sticks, candles and a wickedly curved blade. The blade she stops and examines before looking back up at him. “We’ll help you with that, we’ll take away all that pain, the unnecessary burden of your magic.”

That’s the last thing that Stiles wants. Whoever this ‘we’ is, their goal is power. Stiles’ power, Stiles’ power that’s slowly been growing and growing the past few weeks, burning inside of him. He wonders if it was her plan all along to stoke his magic until it was out of control and then take it for herself. 

Lydia stirs, chains clattering together as she moves uncertainly, probably noticing the strain on her arms. Her eyes blink groggily, face scrunching in discomfort. Her eyes widen in panic, arms flexing, testing the give of the chains. The movement makes her sway, feet scrambling for purchase. Watching her seems so surreal. They’re strung up in a warehouse. It’s the perfect setup for a death scene. 

Lydia’s eyes track the room. She can’t see Erica or Boyd, they’re slightly behind and to the right of her. Her eyes don’t pause at any point behind him, which makes Stiles assume there’s no one and nothing behind him. When their gaze catches, Stiles flicks his eyes down to the runes and then back up at her a few times. It takes a second, but she looks down spotting the ruins, mouth moving along as she read them. 

“Why do you need to transfer power?” she asks, voice cutting through the silence. It’s raw, scraping the wrong way out of her throat. Jennifer jerks up from where she’s rummaging through the things and she smiles again, wider this time, wicked.

“For me,” Peter Hale says, stepping into the room and out of the shadow of the doorway. His posture is relaxed, loose lines of his shoulders, hands behind his back. Stiles’ stomach drops out completely, dread suffocating him with renewed force. Lydia’s eyes are wide as she realizes who it is, pure loathing replacing the blatant confusion. Of course, it’s Peter, _of course_ \--

“You!” she snarls, swings on her chains with the force of it.

“ _Me_ ,” Peter says, all sharp teeth and ill-intentions. It’s a flat look, like he can’t actually muster up any glee. He probably can’t, because he’s a fucking sociopath. When Stiles doesn’t answer, he continues talking as if engaged in conversation. “Derek just let Erica and Boyd go out into the world all alone, they were so easy to catch once they lost the power of the pack. It was quick, they had already made the decision to cut themselves off from everyone. Of course, I still need them tethered, strengthening your little pack, so I’m going to have to improvise, but I think I can come up with something.”

As he’s been talking, he’s made his way over to Jennifer. The bottle he grabs from her is small and round at the bottom, full with clear liquid. The top flips open with a _snap_. Peter pours some out onto his fingers and Stiles can see how thick it is. Peter makes his way towards Lydia intently. Lydia tenses and shakes on her chains as he nears her, feet scrambling for purchase as she slams her eyes closed and turns her head away. He grabs her face with the hand his clean hand, and turns her towards him forcefully. The oil glitters with colors before becoming clear again when he draws a rune on her forehead. Stiles can’t see it expect for a barely-there sheen that catches the light. Peter turns to him and does the same, ignoring the glare that Stiles has fixed on his face. The oil is hot as it spreads, then cools rapidly, leaving a tingle behind.

The room sharpens and colors collapse into a kaleidoscope of refracting light. There’s a white glow nestled in Lydia’s chest, with rainbow ends. He squints at it, trying to figure out what the fuck it’s supposed to be. It illuminates the soft curves of her face, the runes on the floor. 

Peter blocks his view and Stiles has time to jerk away from him as he lifts the knife to Stiles’ chest. Stiles hadn’t even seen him pick it up. He rocks back on his toes, but swings forward again, pulled by the chains. Peter’s smile is amused this time as he steadies Stiles with a hand to his hip. Stiles resists the urge to squirm away. There’s a knife a little too close to his sternum for comfort and he refuses to impale himself on it accidently. 

“That’s a soul,” Peter says, in that whiskey voice of his, presumably talking about the glow in Lydia’s chest. Stiles looks down to where the knife is pointing at the glow in Stiles’ own chest, a soft blue, then to where Peter’s should be. There’s nothing, just a void. The absence of his magical energy personified, Lydia’s mouth in the dream -- 

It’s so surprising he jerks back -- then rocks forward again, the knife drawing a bead of blood when it pokes him sharply. Stiles hisses through his teeth in pain. 

“I don’t have one,” Peter says, unnecessarily. He drags the sharp point of the knife into Stiles’ shirt, ripping the material until it hits the top of his binder. The knife digs into Stiles’ flesh as Peter carves a rune into his chest, blood slipping wetly down into the collar of his binder.

Stiles’ skin is uncomfortably numb before the pain blooms rapidly, like his nerves took too long to relay the information to his brain. He gasps loudly, spit collecting in his mouth and sweat breaking out across the surface of his skin. He can hear Lydia release a sob over the blood rushing in his ears. Peter turns to her, knife glinting in the light.

Stiles pulls at his chains, like maybe it will help, like maybe it will distract Peter from pointing the deadly, sharp object at Lydia.

“Stop!” he yells, even though Peter is right in front of him and would hear him even if he whispered. He surges forward on his toes, gets a warning look from Lydia, but he ignores her. He can’t let her get hurt, if they kill her, it’s all his fault. “Leave her alone!”

“But, Stiles, I can’t,” Peter says, turning back to him. He twirls the knife in his hand. The smile this time has an edge of glee. It looks all wrong on Peter’s face. “She’s as important as you are, maybe even _more_ important. You see, she was supposed to help me before. To gain immortality, I mean. But my nephew got in the way.” He turns to Lydia, and grabs a fist full of her hair, yanking her head back. Stiles can tell she’s trying to keep her face stoic, but it crumples in pain and fear. “Banshees are so useful, they have one foot in the world and one foot in the grave, you know. Your very _nifty_ trick with Erica gave me a brilliant idea and I _definitely_ need her for that.”

Peter takes the knife, carves the same rune that Stiles has on his chest into Lydia’s palm. She screams. A painful, human scream that rips out of her throat and ends in a sob. Her blood drips to the floor. 

“Lydia! Look at me,” Stiles says, hating the tears that prickle her eyes. She whimpers, locks her eyes on his determinedly, biting her lip. He needs to distract her. He needs to keep her from thinking about it. “Just keep your eyes on me.”

“That’s _adorable_ ,” Peter says, smirking at them both. He bodily lifts Lydia so there’s slack in her chains and tugs her forward. The chains grate against the crossbeam they’re thrown over as Peter brings her within arms reach of Stiles. The proximity throws the light of their souls together, mingling between them. 

Stiles has no fucking idea what’s happening here. Besides Peter wanting to live forever, but they already know that. That was his end goal the whole time, the reason why he bit Lydia, why he needed a banshee. But, everything else: Jennifer and Derek, Stiles’ magic going out of control, trying to kill Erica, the twins’ pack. It still doesn’t make sense. 

Peter takes Lydia’s hand, bloodied from the rune carving, and seals it against the mess that is Stiles’ chest. The light from their souls pulses sharply, and Peter whispers, “ _sub specie aeternitatis_ ,” reverently.

The whole world explodes into harsh light. Stiles and Lydia cry out at the same time, rocking on their chains. Lydia’s palm fuses to his chest, burning that spot. It’s hot enough to make him turn his face away. His skin is throbbing with pain, heart pounding rapidly. Stiles feels the whisper of eerie voices walk across his skin. Everything suddenly feel dank and dark and dreadful. The _need_ to scream overwhelms him, claws at the inside of his throat. 

“Don’t, Stiles, _don’t_ ,” Lydia says, begging. It echoes through Stiles’ body, mind, almost like he said it himself, thought it at the same time the words escaped her mouth. He exhales, not making a noise, and she sags in relief. He has no idea what any of it means --

Lydia’s eyes are shining with unspilled tears. Stiles can feel her fear, different than his own yet completely the same somehow. He can feel her hatred of Peter on the back of his tongue, bitter. The desire to cry is strong, but the stubborn desire to stay quiet is stronger. Every emotion echoes through their bond. He can feel her magic under his own skin, like it was when they brought Erica back, but amplified out of control.

It takes a minute for Stiles to school it into something manageable. Lydia understands what he’s doing, their intentions link. She helps him suppress their magic until it’s no longer threatening to spill out of them. It’s hard to focus past the bright light that’s enveloping them both, but Stiles sees Peter by Erica and Boyd. He unchains Erica, dragging her away from the pillar. She flails in his grip, growling and biting, but he’s stronger than her and he bares down until she relents. He shoves her in front of them. 

“Let me go you fucking creep,” she snarls, fighting against him again. Peter wrenches her head back, and Stiles can’t tear his eyes away, thinking of the dream, the birds tearing out of her throat. Stiles thinks, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry_.

There’s a heavy, dark feeling at the base of his spine. It curls around his vocal chords, choking him --

He can’t look away as Peter’s claws appear and stab into Erica’s throat, the blood welling around his fingers so swiftly it looks fake, toothpaste squeezing from a container. He can hear Boyd howling, struggling against his chains --

He _needs to scream_.

Lydia whimpers, tears falling down her face, but she’s silent. Stiles bites his lip so hard he pierces through the skin, jaw clenching and grinding. It _hurts_ not to scream. The urge hooks into him, makes his chest burn. He fights against the even though it feels like he’s going to _die_ if he doesn’t.

Erica’s last breath escapes her as she crumples to the floor and the feeling vanishes. Stiles and Lydia gasp in unison, relief and emptiness coursing through them. A wisp of glowing smoke in the shape of a wolf surges out of Erica’s chest and flows into Stiles and Lydia where they’re connected. They take the boost of power, feel the shifter magic slot in with their own, fingers tingling and filled to the brim.

Peter gazes at Erica’s body with detached interest.

“Jennifer told me this interesting fact,” he says, conversationally, like he didn’t just gauge Erica’s _throat out_. “Her alpha tried to kill her for her power, but instead left her mangled and half dead at the stump of a tree.” He wipes his hand on Stiles’s stomach, eyes searing into him, sounding downright gleeful. Stiles’ stomach feels sick looking at the smear of red. 

“There were these alphas who took their beta’s power by killing their pack. How incestuous, right?” he continues. “They didn’t have a sufficient anchor, because they didn’t think ahead. Their power dwindled, but before it was gone, Jennifer killed two of them, including her former alpha. Circle of life type of thing. But, it got me thinking.”

He makes his way over to Boyd and unchains him next, wrenching his arms behind his back and steers him to where Lydia and Stiles are still hanging. His eyes are red, his face blotchy, but his gaze is steady and full of rage. Stiles moves again, but can’t lunge like he wants because Lydia is still fused to the front of him. That dark feeling is back, licking its way up his spine.

“Take the betas power and make sure you have an anchor,” Peter tips Boyd’s chin up. “Which is where you come in, Stiles. You’re so powerful, you’re the perfect conduit.”

“Don’t -- let him go,” Stiles begs. Peter walks his claws up the large muscle of Boyd’s neck, rests them lightly against his artery.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” he says, baring his teeth, eyes maliciously bright. “You see, I’m using you and Lydia to absorb their power and energy. Once you’re full, I’ll take it for myself. A wolf with the power of an alpha and its pack, but with none of the pesky interpersonal relationships.”

He grasps Boyd’s chin and drags twos claws into and across his neck, blood spurting, landing in wet and warm drops on Stiles’ face and neck. It’s so unexpected that Stiles can’t fight the scream and Lydia’s voice accompanies his, loud and piercing. Jennifer winces in the corner, crouching quickly and covering her ears as the windows above her head explode outward.

Their voices carrying the sound of a thousand voices, crescendoing like waves crashing. Boyd’s soul escapes him in the shape of a wolf, surging into Lydia’s chest. The power fuses them together further, so much so that Stiles can’t tell where he ends and Lydia begins. Thoughts and feelings whirl together until it’s a mess of anxious chaos. The bright light is deafening, the scream is blinding. They choke and cough, then release the howl that surges through them unexpectedly.

It’s pure suffering, long and heartbroken. Boyd’s last cry. They sob at the end, tracks of tears mirrored on their faces. Their soul pulses between them, bright and clear. It makes the darkness surrounding them is oppressive in comparison. Peter lurks on the outskirts of the circle of light, shadows dark on his face. His eyes are glowing bright blue, watching them hungrily. But, there’s nothing else, no one else for Peter to take, feed to their magic. He lets them hang there, radiating too-bright as he stalks around them. The blood on his hand is pearly, glittering, a stark contrast with his pale skin. 

“Now, for all this nasty anchor business,” Peter says, voice business-casual. A simple discussion over a cup of coffee, comparing notes. “I certainly like the idea of bonding the magic to me. I suppose that would work the best wouldn’t it?”

Stiles watches as he pulls off his shirt, muscles of his torso lithe and firm, revealing skin that’s covered in patterns and patterns of ink. Runes and seals marked into his available skin. Different languages, glyphs, and shapes that adhere to sacred geometric proportions. It’s making Stiles feel vaguely ill, knowing that Peter has been working on this the whole time, right under their noses. 

“This will keep a pack’s power contained inside me,” Peter says, tapping his sternum where there’s a particularly large seal. The commands over the wings of his shoulder are scent containment, sound containment, spells that dampen awareness of him. Maybe that’s how he flew under Derek’s radar for so long. 

“Derek trusted you,” Stiles says, feeling betrayed himself. “He let you stay, he let you _live_ \--”

“Pity, that,” Peter snarls, grabbing at Stiles’ jaw and wrenching his head to the side so Stiles can see the blue flare of his eyes. There’s so much hatred and malice there. “He tore my _throat out_ , he doesn’t get a pass.”

Stiles spits in his face.

Peter pushes his head away forcefully, wiping off the spit with the back of his hand. It smears Boyd and Erica’s blood over the bony ridge of his cheek and eye socket, a twisted kind of war paint that makes Stiles’ stomach lurch in revulsion. 

“Don’t you want to know why I chose you, Stiles?” Peter asks, almost kindly. Stiles really doesn’t, he doesn’t give a shit what justifications Peter has for all of this. 

“Please, just kill me so that I don’t have to hear you monologue anymore,” Stiles says, defiantly, tipping his chin up to glare at Peter. If anything, that makes Peter grin wide, mouth sharp at the edges. 

“I always did like you,” Peter says. “Sharp mouth, sharp mind. You would make an _excellent_ wolf.”

“Sorry, elemental magic and shifter magic aren’t exactly compatible,” Stiles snarks, not sorry at all. A wolf is the last thing he wants to be, especially if it’s Peter who’s suggesting it.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” Peter says, but doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he gazes intently on Lydia’s palm magically fused to Stiles’ chest. Stiles wonders what it smells like, their blood on the floor, the fear, the anxiety. He wonders if Peter can smell the magic that’s spilling out into the air around them. If it smells like fire, or lightning, or something not quite natural. 

“You’re powerful,” Peter says, eyes flicking back to Stiles’ face. “Powerful enough to house all of this magic. I wouldn’t be able to do it, neither would Jennifer. Like I said, you’re the perfect conduit. I flow the magic through you and into me, and I don’t have to worry about the scarring or the influx of foreign magic that I imagine will burn you out like a husk.”

Stiles’ stomach plummets down to his feet, fear tinging the edge of the bond between him and Lydia. He hadn’t thought about what might happen after. _If_ there was an after. Didn’t think that he might _die_ , too caught up in the present, what was happening. Maybe that was stupid. Lydia’s eyes are wide, scared. Stiles tries to smile at her, but every muscle feels so heavy, he doesn’t think his mouth even twitches.

There’s a deep, angry roar from somewhere outside and Stiles can’t eliminate the feeling of relief that radiates through them. _Derek_. Twin howls pierce through the air in response. 

“Oh, good, they’re here,” Peter says, eyebrows raising.

“I hope Derek rips your throat out again,” Lydia says, snidely. Stiles hadn’t spared a thought for Derek and the pack, but they were out there. “I hope he kills you _with his teeth_.” Stiles chuckles darkly, because he knows that thought. He loves that thought.

Peter grins, “I guess we’ll just have to see.” 

Stiles looks past Lydia to where Jennifer has drawn runes on the floor in dark oil. There’s multiple seals on the floor. Stiles can’t read them, but Lydia apparently can, and the translation unfurls from a corner of his mind. It’s a trap, a very obvious trap, but the wolves probably won’t pick up on it when they barrel through the doorway like rampaging elephants. A couple will paralyze on contact, others will knock the wolf unconscious. Jennifer looks up, as if she senses she’s being watched. Her eyes are a blazing red, like Derek’s, two beacons of power in the darkness on the other side of the wall of brilliant light that’s still shining around them.

“Is that supposed to stop them from attacking you?” Stiles asks harshly, fully aware that that’s not the point of the runes at all. He’s just trying to distract Jennifer, buy time so that she doesn’t bother with anymore circles. Her gaze is sharp as she looks at him, but she doesn’t respond. Outside, more howls break the silence.

“The cavalry has arrived,” Peter says, looking out of the windows. Stiles can’t see anything out there, so he doesn’t try. Hope flutters in his chest once again.

“Finally,” Jennifer agrees. “You took him too far out, this is taking far too long.”

“It was hard enough to even get him to leave the area,” Peter responds, looking at her with disdain, mouth a hard sneer. “Maybe if you were powerful enough to keep him under your spell --”

“The boy _did_ something,” Jennifer snarls, harshly, looking back at Stiles. He smirks at her.

“A _trinket_ \--”

“Peter --”

“Hey, can we turn down the lights?” he asks, loudly. Not that he doesn’t enjoy their arguing. It will make it easier to kick their asses. They’re obviously only working together for convenience. The lack of loyalty will be their weak spot. “It’s hard to see, and I really want to watch you get your ass kicked.” 

“ _Obscura_ ,” Peter mutters, waving a hand across the space between them. The lights flex and flicker and when Stiles blinks, everything dims. There’s still a faint glow around them, but it’s easier to see past it, pick out the details of the room around him. Easier to see where Erica and Boyd’s bodies are discarded to the side, lifeless. Stiles swallows drily. 

There’s the sound of feet on stairs, quick and determined. His heart rate picks up in anticipation and Lydia’s responds, matching his pace for pace. There’s a crash and a bang and Scott flies through the door in a partial shift, game-face on.

“TRAP!” Stiles yells, and Scott serpentines across the floor quickly. The trap catches his right foot at the last second, flaring bright green, and he lets out a strangled yelp, pitching forward. He’s stiff as he goes down, unconscious. It won’t last long, but it’s long enough for Jennifer to crouch over him and tear his shirt away, carving a rune into his chest with the knife she puts out of a boot sheath. The center of Scott’s chest glows white and Stiles feels Scott’s wolf merge with them, another boost of power that flows through their locked bodies.

He chokes back a sob, and yells, “Scott, fuck _Scott_!” He can’t help it, he moves forward, presses into Lydia.

“Stiles!” she whispers. “Stiles, look at me, _Stiles_.” He looks at her, feeling a heavy sadden coursing through him accompanied by hot anger. “He’s not dead, we didn’t feel it.” Stiles blinks, knows she’s right, her mind directs him to think of the feeling he got before with Erica and Boyd, that morbid feeling at the base of his spine.

“What did you do to him, you bitch?” he screams at Jennifer, over Lydia’s shoulder. Jennifer stands up, smirking.

“Don’t worry, he’s just a human,” she says, and looks like she’s to launch into an explanation when Isaac storms into the room, partially shifted as well. When he sees the runes on the floor, when he sees Peter, he snarls and transforms fully, exploding out of his clothes to become a tawny wolf. He crouches down, legs bunching and releasing as he throws himself onto Peter. They collide with a loud _crack_ of muscle and bone, rolling across the floor behind Stiles.

Stiles tries to pull at his magic, now that Peter is distracted. Jennifer is crouched by the door, waiting for Derek. She’s not paying them any attention, so Stiles dives into himself, feels around for magic, _any magic_. He chases Scott’s wolf down, but it disappears behind Jennifer’s blockade. It’s starting to fissure, unable to sustain itself while being bombarded by more and more magical power. 

He prods every inch of it, closing his eyes, focusing inward. He can feel Lydia back up his focus, can feel her inside his mind next to him, scouring the energy field together. They just need to find a crack that goes deep enough, if he can get some power, _any_ power -- 

They feel the wall waiver momentarily and take the opportunity, stabbing at it with their mind. The wall cracks further, he can feel where it leaks. He grasps the bit of power that’s there. It’s hot and hard, overwhelming even though it’s a only small bit of what’s housed inside of him. If it all gets released, he won’t be able to control, not even with Lydia’s help. The power of three betas and an banshee inside of him alongside his regular magic will be too much. 

Their eyes spring open at the same time and Lydia is radiating light, her eyes alive with fire. She reminds him of a phoenix, the glow haloing around her head. Even without access to the full power, magic is blazing through them. Their veins feel like liquid, bodies full to the brim. The rest of the energy is trying to escape, pushing at the crack in the blockade. 

They look at Scott and can see the tendrils of the spell around his chest. They focus their energy, picking apart the spell from the trap, unwrapping it slowly with just their mind. Scott is lying near the entrance, distanced from them, but it’s like they’re next to him, touching him. The darkness dissipates and Scott stirs. They relish the victory for a minute. 

Stiles looks inward, if he focuses enough he can see through Lydia’s eyes, watch over his own shoulder as Isaac and Peter scuffle behind him. Peter’s now a hulking grey wolf, clothes discarded against the wall. Peter has the upper hand, he’s stronger and an experienced fighter, but Isaac is lithe and fast. He presses forward and attacks, but bounds away quickly, teasing the fight out, buying time. Peter follows, pressing close, trying to use his size as an advantage.

Stiles comes back to his own eyes, watches Scott get up with a daze. 

“Scott!” he and Lydia cry, voices intermingling. Jennifer is moving towards Scott, the knife clenched in her fist, and they panic before sending a surge of energy towards her.

A spiral of fire knocks her against the wall. The old brick of the walls cracks and crumbles from the force of it, plaster flying. She slumps, dazed. Scott stands and stumbles, looks confused for a moment, flexing his fingers. He’s noticing he’s human and it’s throwing him off balance, Stiles is sure, but they really don’t have time for any of that. They groan.

“Scott!” Scott’s head snaps up towards them, eyes widening, but he nods and grabs Jennifer’s knife off of her before moving uncertainly towards Isaac and Peter who are still locked together in their spar. There’s not much he can do right now.

“Leave, Scott!” they shout. “Seriously, you can’t help, go --”

Allison comes through the door, bow poised. She does a visual check of Scott, then sees Stiles and Lydia. Striding over, she nocks an arrow into her bow, but points it at the ground. Her eyes sweep over the runes, frown on her face, looks between them, where they’re fused. Thankfully, she doesn’t try to do anything, just stands guard. Stiles watches as Derek bounds through the door on all fours, nose catching the smells in the air. At the same time, Lydia sees Peter slams Isaac into the wall, teeth going for the vulnerable front of his throat.

Allison strides forward and shoots two arrows into Peter’s front flank while Derek charges, body checking Peter, forcing him away from Isaac. He clamps his large jaws over his entire shoulder, teeth digging into his chest and back. Peter yelps and tries to scramble away, paws working uselessly against the floor/ Derek holds him fast, lips lifted in a warning that Peter can’t see. His growl reverberates through the space, low but overwhelming in its command. Their magic surges to the surface of their skin, responding to their alpha.

Stiles barely registers Jennifer’s return to wakefulness through his own eyes, so focused on Derek. No one notices when she moves in front of him, around to where Stiles and Lydia are still fused. Her fingers lock around Lydia’s wrist, applying pressure. Allison jerks back at the last second, but Jennifer’s sneer is victorious.

“I wouldn’t do that, babe,” she warns, her voice light, appealing. Derek is watching her, eyes bright red, but his teeth remain, bearing down into Peter’s muscle. She clicks her tongue and Stiles can feel her swampy magic slither between Lydia’s palm and his chest, worming its way in, changing the rune so their bond loosens.

“I was going to keep him,” she says, to the room at large, but her eyes are sharp on Stiles’ face, accusing. Stiles is assuming she’s talking about Derek. She was going to keep Derek, just force him to love her. The thought makes him feel sick, useless, hollow.

“How about you find someone who you don’t have to magically coerce into loving you?” Lydia snaps, so Stiles doesn’t have to. Jennifer arches her eyebrow, and Stiles seriously wonders if that’s an evil villain genetic mutation.

“The last person I fell in love with _naturally_ \--” she spits the word out like it tastes bad, “-- _attacked me_ and left me for dead.” She squeezes Lydia’s wrist harder and Stiles can feel bones grind. “But Derek brought me back when he killed his girlfriend. That sacrifice _healed me_.”

Derek opens his mouth then, drops Peter’s shoulder. Peter falls, dead weight cracking against the floor. He makes a low noise in his throat, moving away from Derek slowly. His blue eyes are fixed intently on on Derek, watching carefully, remaining still, while Derek turns to Jennifer. He shifts back, crouching low, still close enough to Peter to retaliate if he strikes.

“That wasn’t my intent,” he says, looking at Jennifer carefully. His voice is hoarse and low. It wracks through Stiles’ magic harshly. Lydia’s surprise echoes across their bond, soft and curious. He pushes at her, wanting her to focus on the danger, not the wonders of Stiles’ deep-rooted attachment to Derek.

“But it happened, Derek,” Jennifer says, imploring. “It happened, you saved me, and now I just want to repay, protect you.” She releases Lydia’s wrist and sinks down to Derek’s level.

Stiles can feel static in the air, the push of foreign magic. She’s invoking the compliancy spell. Stiles can feel it wash over them like water, sinking into Derek only. His eyes glaze over, body going soft and lax under the energy. There’s no obsidian raven around his neck, it wouldn’t work with the shift. Meaning Derek’s vulnerable to her influence. The realization makes anger surge through them, burning in their chest.

The energy pours out of them, blazing through the air, intercepting her energy and pushing it away from Derek and back into her. Derek’s eyes flicker back to life, muscles hardening again. Jennifer turns, snarling at them. She gets up. Stiles can hear her joints snapping together in her haste like particularly harsh punctuation.

“Bad move,” she snaps and slips her nasty water magic between Lydia’s hand and his chest again, and _rips_ them apart. The tendrils of their magic intertwine, trying to stay together, but without the runes it’s hopeless.

The next second drags on impossibly long. Stiles can feel Lydia’s panic, the thought that it’s going to be too much for him to handle, it’s going to rip him apart. Stiles knows before Lydia does it that she’s going to release all her power to him. Shared power, banshee power, he’s going to get it all. Everything speeds up again.

“ _E pluribus unum_!” Lydia screams as she’s thrown bodily from him. Her chains slide along the crossbeam. She flops around like a rag doll, her chest heaving.

Stiles feels all the magic that they had split between them surge through him like liquid fire. It’s behind his eyes, accumulating at his fingertips, gathering in his palms. There’s a twister of magical energy, fire that burns high. It’s hot enough to melt his handcuffs, and he falls to the floor with a pained groan.

The magic is overwhelming, burning him up, it’s pain like he’s never felt before, and he feels so full -- too full. He screams, the metaphysical pressure building behind his sternum. He knows he can’t control this amount of power for long.

He looks up, and the world is once again a kaleidoscope of colors, harsh and too-bright. Everyone is looking at him with uneasy looks on their faces. Isaac is warily crouched over Peter, who’s backed up against the wall with Derek at his feet. Jennifer is hovering between him and Stiles, looking angrily at Lydia, before her eyes snap back to him.

“What did you _do_?” she asks, practically screams. Her soul and the light radiating off of it are infected, brown and green and Stiles is sure it would smell like putrid waste if he could smell it.

“Why are you glowing?” she demands, standing. “ _Why are you glowing_?” She seems _scared_ , and Stiles relishes it for the briefest of moments before the magic surges through him again, agony in its wake.

“Derek,” he says, it’s a plea. He slams his eyes shut, focuses on pushing the magic back, bundling it in his core. He doesn’t know what happens next, only knows that it’s Peter who snarls, taking advantage of the way everyone is frozen in place. 

Stiles opens his eyes to see Peter’s muzzle wrapping around the back of Derek’s neck, closed down hard enough that blood wells around his sharp teeth. Derek whimpers and struggles, movements provoking more blood that mats his fur wettly. Isaac snarls, butting against Peter, teeth snapping against his muscle. 

“Derek, _Derek_ ,” Stiles cries. Jennifer’s boot connects with his ribs and he falters, body collapsing from surprise. He scrambles away before she can kick him again, rolling and moving to his feet. He’s genuinely shocked that his legs bear his weight, but its probably just the magic and adrenaline coursing through him that allows it. He loses track of the fight between the wolves, watches as Jennifer comes closer. 

Allison gets with it, directing her bow at Jennifer’s head, hands steady.

“Back off,” she says, voice a sharp command in the air, cutting through the snarl of wolves, the clash of bodies. Scott is standing behind her uncertainly, still holding the knife that Jennifer had earlier. Jennifer doesn’t pay either of them much mind. Her hands flicks out before anyone can register it. A wave of water sweeps through the room from her to them, taking their feet out from under them and pinning them to the far wall. The knife and bow clatter to the floor. 

Stiles moves, feeling the magic blaze through him, fire manifesting in his palm before he even has to think about it, heat scorching against his skin. He launches them through the air at her. He wants to catch her while she distracted, but she turns, water coming between them at the last moment. They connect with a _hiss_ , fire extinguishing. 

Stiles riles his magic back up. The wall she erected cracks further, allowing him more energy. It’s the most he’s had access to in his life. Every command comes easily, there’s no calling it to him. Magic tingles down his forearms, launching a whip of fire that she dodges, moving with surprising speed. 

“You might be powerful,” she snarls, water blocking another of his attempts to hit her. “But, you have no idea what you’re doing. Have you even used your magic to attack people before? God, you’re pathetic.”

Stiles bares his teeth at her. She’s right of course, he doesn’t fucking _attack people_ , but he doesn’t need to waste time talking. Behind Jennifer, Isaac and Derek have Peter cornered. If he can stall long enough for Peter to submit, he can get help. A rock breaks through the floor behind her, tripping her. She goes down with an undignified yell. Isaac uses the opportunity to bound over to her, standing above her as a looming threat. Derek is keeping Peter pinned in place with a snarl.

“You’re the one who’s pathetic,” Stiles says, moving over to her. If he had more time to think about it, he would come up with a more witty rejoinder, but he doesn’t. He slips his magic between the water that’s pinning Scott and Allison to the wall, prying them free. It slithers away from his fire with an unhappy _hiss_. 

Allison drops, grabbing up her bow and nocking an arrow into place to point at Jennifer. She shrinks away from him, but Isaac butts against her, making her stop. Excitement whirls through him. They have the upperhand.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, voice going high and tight. “Kill me, _Stephanie_?” Her eyes flare red at him, making his magic surge to the surface, leaking through the cracks. Her mouth drops in surprise, as if she forgot she’s basically commanding his magic. He pulls it back from the surface of his skin, trying to quell it. 

Before he can answer, she moves, snapping water out towards Isaac, flinging him back. He yelps, paws dragging against the concrete as it pushes him away from them. In the next instant, she has her hands around his throat, wall of water erected between them and Allison. Stiles can hear the sharp _shtick_ of arrows rebounding off the water.

“This won’t take long,” she says, one hand around his throat, the other outstretching in Derek’s direction. Stiles can feel his magic swimming to the surface at her proximity, can feel the way it tugs towards her and Derek. The energy uses her to channel towards Derek, reaching for its alpha. Stiles can’t see past the water, but he can feel the moment Derek becomes aware of it. Jennifer conducts the exchange, uses Stiles’ energy to draw Derek’s out. It pulls back, slick with resistance before it buckles and flows through her into Stiles.

He gasps, feeling too full already. The alpha magic surges through him, obliterating the wall that was there. Everything is too hot all at once. His skin is vibrating with the power that’s between them. Jennifer’s smile is half-crazed as she forces it into him. The magic courses through his body, lighting every nerve ending on fire. It’s agonizing.

He’s trying to hold it in, keep it from swelling outwards. The pressure on his skin is too much. It feels like he’s starting to burn and blister from the magic heat, nearly nonexistent, but searing just the same. It moves under his epidermis, gaining momentum. He’s going to lose control, quickly. A glow starts around him, casting a dull light on Jennifer’s manic eyes. He can see himself reflected in her too-large pupils, skin starting radiate magic unwillingly. The space surrounding them smells overwhelmingly of ash and flame. 

He can’t fight the way the magic is demanding an escape. It rushes through him, spiralling out of control. His body catches on fire, lighting up, a column shooting towards the ceiling. Jennifer screeches, releasing him to erect a shield of water that hisses and sputters as their energies connect. The pain is making his vision swim in and out of blackness. 

There’s a snarl, somewhere in the commotion. The room starts fading and he can feel arms around him, he’s swaying like a ship. There’s a long plane of skin, the cut of Derek’s jaw. Stiles is still on fire and he know it burns because he can feel the throbbing and pulsing even though it’s doing nothing to his skin. He’s slowly losing consciousness in Derek’s arms. 

“But, babe, you don’t even like fire,” Stiles slurs, trying to hold onto the magic that’s coursing through him. It’s difficult, with his vision so fuzzy, head disconnected, trying to float out into the abyss. 

“Stiles? _Stiles_!”

 

“I need to stop passing out,” Stiles says, before he really registers what’s going on. He rolls to the side, thankfully horizontal, and pukes all over the ground, vomit splashing wetly a little too close to his face. There’s a hot hand on his back, sending magic sparking through him. He groans and rolls, trying to get away from it.

“You can’t touch me, I might die if you keep touching me,” Stiles says. He doesn’t even know who is touching him, but he can’t have any of that. There’s a roar of flames somewhere in the background, a ruckus of voices and movement, maybe -- he’s not entirely sure what’s going on. Something big happened, he thinks. He hopes they got Peter and Jennifer, hopes Lydia is safe.

He blinks his eyes open, squinting against the light that’s coming… from him. He picks his hands up, watches his magic swirl under his skin. He’s glowing pinks and reds, luminous. He feels full to the brim, overwhelmed with magical energy.

“Why aren’t I dead?” he asks the sky. Derek and Scott lean over him with twin looks of concern on their faces, bodies illuminated by his weird fairy-glow.

“No idea,” Scott says, warily. “I mean, I’m glad you’re not, but what the fuck are we going to do now?” Derek stands up and straightens, folds his arms. He’s completely naked with blood spotting his face, neck, hands; with Stiles’ glow casting him in a soft light, he looks ethereal, like a war god.

“We’re going to have a serious talk about your people-saving skills,” Stiles tells them both. “I saved both your asses, now I’m forming galaxies under my skin.”

“We need to take him to Deaton,” Derek says. Stiles’ eyes are closed again, but he’s sure Derek is arching his eyebrows, communicating his full disapproval.

“What we need to do is get me to the tree,” Stiles says, rolling away from his vomit. He feels hands on him again, electricity zipping through him at the contact. “The tree, _that tree_. Oh man, that feels nice, touching feels nice. Like, I can feel every atom vibrating against each other.”

It’s too bright when he manages to open his eyes, squinting. Logically, he knows it’s not actually bright out. It’s nearly the middle of the night, but he’s glowing and there’s streetlights and Derek’s eyes are glowing blue at him.

 _Blue_?

“Why are your eyes blue? Where are your alpha eye things? They were red, now they’re not red.”

“It’s like he’s drunk,” says Scott. Stiles realizes that’s who he’s leaning against. He nuzzles into Scott’s shoulder.

“You smell nice,” he says, fully aware that his neurons might be firing a little bit oddly right now. Everything is infused with energy, it’s like he’s high, but higher than high. It’s like he’s connected to every star in the universe, every insignificant piece of matter. “Eyes?”

“You took it,” Derek says, arms crossed. It’s almost like he’s looking at Stiles, but not quite. Maybe he’s looking next to Stiles, or through Stiles, or, _oh_.

“I took it?” Stiles asks, incredulous for lack of anything else to be. “Holy hamburgers!” He straightens up, puffing his chest out.

“ _I’m the alpha now_ ,” he says, dropping his voice ridiculously low.

“That’s not how I sound,” Derek says. Stiles assumes that he’s conducting their weird train of leaning bodies, because one second he’s standing and the next he’s being pushed into the back of the Camaro. Stiles can see himself glowing in the rear view mirror. The rune on his chest is bright with white light, while the rest of him swirls in shades of red and orange, like a living fire. His eyes are bright red, he can’t stop _staring_ at them.

“She said _that name_ ,” Stiles says, remembering. “She called me Stephanie and my magic responded because it’s my birth name and that’s stupid. It’s, it’s not _my name_. My name is Stiles, my magic shouldn’t have responded to Stephanie at all, it’s not my _name_.” 

There’s a lump in his throat that keeps thickening. It’s stupid, but he feels so _betrayed_ that his magic responded to that name. And, he’s so tired, exhausted really, but he can’t make himself fall back asleep no matter how hard he tries. They drive at some point, and arrive at some point. Scott pulls him from the car, skin dark and dull against his.

“It was just her command word,” Scott says, reassuringly. “It doesn’t mean anything. Remember how we were talking about Harry Potter magic? That was just the word she put intent behind.” Stiles wants to believe him, he really does, but it still feels like his magic is a traitor somehow. Of course, it’s been acting like a hot mess for awhile, so maybe that’s just the cherry on top of a really fucked up sundae. 

They’re stumbling through the woods. Stiles doesn’t really notice until he realizes that the lines in his peripheral are trees. His focus sharpens, when he fully recognizes the area, taking in details. They’re en route to the nemeton with Derek leading the way. He definitely knows where he’s going, strides purposeful. Stiles wonders if he comes out here to talk to Paige, maybe on the anniversary of her death. To apologize, maybe, or just stare and think about what happened. Derek’s first mercy killing, the first time he had to take a human life, too young to really understand the repercussions. 

Stiles blinks back tears, the thought sitting too heavy in his chest, making his heart feel too big. It’s hard, sometimes, to think about the realities Derek really has to face everyday. Strong, but afraid, maybe. Loyal to his pack, but so untrusting. Stiles has seen that, since they first met, has always wanted to crack it and take it for his own. He’s been outstandingly greedy for Derek’s trust and affection, but now. Stiles just wants Derek to be _capable_ of trust and affection. 

“What’s going on in your head?” Scott asks, squeezing Stiles’ wrist. Stiles is draped over his shoulders, doing a great job of being nearly dragged along towards the nemeton. “You look thinky.”

“I am thinky,” Stiles admits, watching the way Derek’s shoulders move under his shirt. It’s a good thing he has clothes on. Stiles doesn’t think he would be able to handle it if Derek was naked right now. “I just,” Stiles gestures towards Derek with his chin. Scott will understand. And he does, if the slow nod he gives Stiles is anything to go by, another soft squeeze at his wrist. 

They’re at the nemeton before Stiles really has time to process it, but he stumbles forward when he feels it, Scott completely forgotten. There’s a line from his chest to the old tree, anchored somewhere impossibly deep inside of him. He physically aches from the proximity. Before he even commands it, his magic is slipping out from him, flowing into the stump. It moves through the air in pinks and reds and oranges, sparkling and twirling. The pressure under his skin lessens gradually. 

His vision starts to swim again, dimming and sharpening. He blinks trying to clear air, but it fogs over. Stiles is moving towards the stump without realizing it, hand working against the drying blood on his chest until he opens up the cut again, fresh blood sliding wetly down his chest. The scene shifts, he can see Peter in wolf form, a snarl on his mouth. Spit shines wetly on his sharp teeth, glinting the low light of the moon. 

Stiles looks towards the sky, it’s not a full moon, waxing gibbous, but it flickers red -- flickers orange --

Peter crouches. 

Stiles is writing runes on the tree stump in his blood. The drag of the wood grates against his nerves, it hurts, but he doesn’t stop. The runes aren’t fully formed, his magic comes to make up for it. Blood spells out words he can’t read, fire woven into the runes, making them flicker like a dying flame. 

When he looks up, Peter’s stalking towards him. He can’t see, the nemeton flickers out from in front of him, it’s behind him. The nemeton and Peter are behind him. There’s an ache under his skin, it hurts. His side is badly burned, because Stiles. Fucking Stiles and his fucking _magic_. 

“He wasn’t a good vessel,” Stiles says, but he’s not himself, he’s someone else. Someone who’s slowly dying from burns on their skin. Water comes to soothe them over and over, but it’s not helping, it’s not _healing_. 

“He was the perfect vessel, you moronic bitch,” Peter says. He’s not a wolf, he’s fully clothed, walking towards Stiles. “Until you decided to push the alpha magic through him and make him _explode_.”

“They were gaining the upperhand, I had to do something,” Stiles snaps, breathing heavily. His vision goes black. He blinks and he’s still writing on the nemeton, mostly in magic now, the blood on his chest is crusting over. The air around him is too hot.

He can see Peter in wolf form, a snarl on his mouth. Spit shines wetly on his sharp teeth, glinting the low light of the moon. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” Stiles demands, hysterical, afraid. His voice is shaking, his hands are shaking. He’s not powerful enough to defend himself. Peter snarls, stalking towards him. Stiles screams, loud, piercing, feels teeth digging into his throat. Hot blood pours down his front, he chokes on it, gasps and tastes it, thick and metallic. 

Stiles slams his hand down into the stump, magic burning to intensity. Stiles can feel every nerve ending crackling with lightning. Stars explode under his skin, wolves shift and run through his veins, there’s water in his lungs, roots growing in his sternum. Magical energy _rips_ out of him, tearing through his body. He’s screams in pain, tries to pry his hand away, but it’s fused to the stump, glowing brightly. Four wolves escape in a kaleidoscope of colors, two dive into the stump with a long howl, and the other two disappear into Scott and Derek. 

The stump shines brighter and brighter until it’s pure white, the only thing he can see in his field of vision. It pulls at him, like a multitude of hands on him, assessing. He’s in a long, white room. Everything is _too bright_ , he squints, trying to figure out where he is. The room stretches and stretches, disappears into the horizon. 

There’s a dark feeling curling at the base of his spine, crawling up his throat. The banshee magic. Someone is going to die -- Someone is going to --

He starts running. There’s something following him. Terror races through him. He tries to summon his magic, but he’s empty, completely empty, disconnected from it. There’s a door, up ahead, he hurls himself through it. 

He’s in a room of mirrors. Progressions of himself stare out at him, mouth agape in wonder. Stiles dressed as a girl, pigtails and pink. Stiles with a buzzcut. Stiles naked, boobs and hips. He brings his hands up sharply, moving to cover himself. He doesn’t want them to see, he doesn’t want them _to see_. His hands are covered in blood from his forearms down. He smears it on his pale skin. It’s too red, too bright. 

He stumbles back, out of the room, but into the room again. There’s a reflection of himself, clothed, _thank god_. He doesn’t look surprised. There’s dark bruises under his eyes, a dark twist to his mouth. That feeling is back, the feeling of death that chokes him. He stumbles again, trying to get away. 

He hits the white room. There are no mirrors, there’s nothing but the stump. Relief washes through him as he runs to it. Sitting on the wood, there’s a horse fly. 

“I found you,” he says, breathes out in an exhale. He’s relieved. Nervous, ecstatic, there’s an anxious happiness warring in his stomach. 

“Not yet,” he says. Not him, but him. The him from the room with the mirrors. He’s leaning on his forearms, resting on the stump. Stiles looks at him, he looks at him. “Soon.”

“You said that last time,” he points out. “You said that --”

“It’s okay, it will be okay,” he says, smirks all wrong. It feels like knives under Stiles’ skin. It hurts, all at once. 

“Said the spider to the fly,” Stiles says. He’s not going to remember this.

Stiles comes to with Scott clinging to him, grip bruising, frantically yelling his name. He can’t see Derek, but it can’t be much better. Stiles still can’t move his hand, but it’s better, it hurts less, the delirium clears. His face is wet with tears. The clearing is heavy with darkness, Stiles realizes it’s because all the magic has disappeared from the air. 

His hand pops free and he falls to all fours, emptying his stomach onto the ground. It’s thick and black and tastes like death. It reminds him of the dream he had, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He’s exhausted, on the verge of passing out. When he looks at Scott, his eyes are wrong, they’re bright red.

Stiles jerks up, looking for Derek. He’s crouched down next to Stiles, hand on his forearm, occupy the space opposite of Scott. There’s concern on his face, making him look vulnerable and young. His eyes are bright fucking blue. 

“Shit, I fucked up,” Stiles says. He doesn’t recognize his voice at all, it’s deep and rough, throat is sore from yelling. 

Derek looks at Scott, eyes widening impossibly. Scott frowns. He can’t see his own eyes, but he can see the way Derek’s are still blue. Stiles wonder if he’s just too distracted to feel the alpha magic. Stiles was full of magical power and when the alpha magic flowed into him it was heady, powerful, a complete adrenaline rush. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Stiles says, gripping Derek’s arm. Scott is looking more and more concerned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I can fix that. I might be able to fix that. What the fuck.”

“Stiles, stop,” Derek says, hand tightening on Stiles’ arm. “No more magic. We’ll go to Deaton.”

Scott still has no idea what happened, he’s just rubbing Stiles’ arm reassuringly, watching them with a confused expression. 

“Dude, you’re the alpha,” Stiles says, swallowing and swallowing, trying to get his throat to sooth over. Scott’s eyes widen. Stiles can feel him flex against him, like he’s testing his muscles for more power. Stiles doesn’t think that’s how it works, but he just waits patiently. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” he says, all the way back to the Camaro. All the way to Deaton’s. He looks dazed, flexing his hands every now and then. 

“I can’t turn it off,” he says. Stiles can see his eyes reflected in the car window. Derek’s eyes are unshifted, human hazel, when they dart over to look at him. 

“It’s the control, it’ll take you awhile,” Derek says, knowingly. He doesn’t look particularly put out by this development. As if it’s totally fine for Scott to have his all of his power. Maybe he doesn’t mind. Stiles immediately thinks back to the conversation they had at the hospital. Derek yelling about putting them in danger, voicing his regret for biting the betas. 

Stiles looks at Scott and thinks about the way he believed Lydia about not being the kanima, the way his plan took down Gerard. He thinks about the effort he went to with the twins, to keep them pack adjacent even when they didn’t want anything to do with Derek. He purposefully kept Isaac close, even when Isaac got closer to Allison so that the pack wouldn’t fall apart. He’s challenged Derek purely on principle, fought against him to save people’s lives. Derek took up the mantle out of necessity, but Scott has been growing into leadership since he’s been bitten. 

Stiles feels something in the pack bond shift into place. It feels _right_ in a way that it never really did with Derek. Stiles tries to hide his shock. It doesn’t work, his eyes immediately go to Derek’s in the rearview mirror. Derek doesn’t look particularly put out. He rolls his eyes at Stiles and Stiles can see a small smile on his lips. Oh. 

Stiles returns the smile, letting his eyes slip closed, giving into the tendrils of exhaustion. Maybe everything _will_ be alright. 


	7. Chapter 7

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” his dad demands, voice sharp. His face is doing the red-cheeked, nostril-flare thing that he’s so fond of when he’s pissed off. Stiles cringes, trying to push away the feeling of being utterly dead on his feet. Scott steadies him with an arm around his waist and they both stare at his dad, guilty, unwilling to interrupt. “Don’t lie to me either, your magical signature was all over that warehouse.”

“Whoa, magical _what_?” Stiles demands, as excited as he can get at this level of exhaustion. His dad never told him there was a way to track different people’s magic. What the hell? Stiles feels like that could have been useful in this situation, any situation, really. The look his dad is giving him is truly terrifying and disappointed. Stiles squirms. “I don’t know! I’m the one who got kidnapped.”

He’s trying to keep his voice neutral so the fight doesn’t escalate. If his dad thinks he’s back-talking on top of raising his voice, Stiles will never hear the end of it. He really doesn’t need Derek to hear him fighting with his dad, that’s really not okay. Plus, if he gets mad and yells, his dad will get even more mad, and if his dad gets even more mad, then the vein that’s standing out pretty prominently on his forehead might actually just explode. 

“You got kidnapped after you went to the school to confront a powerful druid,” his dad says, angrily, eyes darting accusingly at Scott. Scott shifts uncomfortably, but still doesn’t say anything. Stiles doesn’t blame him, he really doesn’t want to be having this conversation either. 

“How did you --”

“I’m the _police_ , Stiles,” he says. He pacing, like an angry pacer. Boots landing against the linoleum heavily. Nails in Stiles’ coffin. “Despite what you think of my department and our competency, we know what we’re doing!”

“I never said you were incompetent!”

“No, you just implied it by not giving us crucial information that could help in an investigation,” his dad says. 

“Like _what_?” Stiles asks. He had been through all of the possible theories and he was working blind. It’s not like he didn’t have resources, first hand accounts. There wasn’t any reason to drag the department into a supernatural catastrophe when they had no clue where to start or end. There were things that never matched up for Stiles, why would they have matched up for anyone else.

“The fact that Jennifer had your entire pack under a compliancy spell, for starters,” his dad says, voice lower, resigned. He drags a hand over his face. Stiles doesn’t know how he knows that. He shoots a look at Scott, who looks at him just as confused. So, not Scott. Lydia? Oh god, did Lydia rat them out? Traitorous traitor.

“What would that have done? I had --”

“You had? You had what, Stiles? Access to police database so you could trace the pattern of disappearances over the last few months?”

“You changed the password --”

“Because you are _not a cop_. If you were a cop you would have known that Jennifer Blake is Julia Baccari who disappeared from her hometown after her alpha killed the entire pack. The same Julia Baccari who is registered as one of the most powerful druids on the west coast. The alpha was in connection --”

“With the alphas that killed their packs,” Stiles says. He wants to feel triumphant. He was right, he was so fucking right, but he just feels sick and heavy with that knowledge. 

“And you know about that because?”

“The twins were part of the pack up north,” Stiles says, without thinking. The pure look of outrage on his dad’s face makes him flinch. 

“That wasn’t information you thought necessary to share?” he demands.

“I wasn’t thinking! I was just trying to figure out why my pack was acting weird,” Stiles says, hotly. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t considering _police protocol_.”

“You should be, you’re the _son of a cop_. We could have built a case against her, figured out what she wanted with your pack,” his dad says. He’s still pacing. Stiles is surprised there isn’t a hole in the ground from where he’s going back and forth. Sometimes when his dad gets mad, his magic acts out. That would be funny, like a cartoon. 

“Peter. Well, Derek. She wanted Derek, she was in love with him for some reason,” Stiles looks around for Derek. In the commotion, he forgot that Derek was supposed to be there. He’s nowhere to be seen. Probably hiding. Stiles would hide from his dad too, if he could.

His dad scrubs his hand over his face again. 

“Paige and the nemeton,” he says, succinctly, accurately. Stiles startles in surprise, wondering if his dad helped handle the case. Stiles wonders if Derek called the cops, led them to the root cellar. There must have been a nemeton where Jennifer -- Julia, whatever -- was killed to make that connection. Smart. Stiles cringes, wishing he had thought of that.

“How did you know?” Stiles demands. “I researched everything I could on the Hales and that was _not_ mentioned.” Stiles hopes Derek did not hear that, that’s embarrassing as hell. He didn’t even look into him because he had a boner for him, _at the time_. He just wanted to know who they were taking up with when they joined the pack. Not that Stiles even anticipated this level of shenanigans, _seriously_.

“It doesn’t mention him because he was a minor and it’s a _sealed file_. Jesus, kid, stay out of the books.” Stiles makes a face.

“Books are what I do.”

“Stiles,” his dad says, seriously, in that sharp voice of his. Stiles is in so much trouble. Fuck it.

“How could you have helped? Why would I get you involved in something that I don’t see a solution to?” Stiles asks, voice breaking on ‘you’ pathetically. There’s no way in fucking hell he’s going to knowingly put his dad at risk. Especially, not the kind of risk that they have to deal with. Erica and Boyd are _fucking dead_. They all could have been dead. If it had been his dad -- 

He has to shove the thought away. It makes hot tears spring to his eyes and he’s not going there, not now. Not where Scott and everyone can see him. He’s tired, he can’t help feeling emotional, but he’ll do the crying later. In the shower. Where no one can see him. Something in his dad’s stern countenance breaks apart at that and he strides forward to bring Stiles into a hug. Scott lets him go, easily.

“I’m the Sheriff, it’s my job,” he says, gently. Stiles sinks into his warmth and his strong grip. He wants to cry for days and then sleep for even longer. 

“It’s scary,” Stiles says, truthfully. He doesn’t say how it freaks him out, thinking about how his dad could have been involved. Stiles would take a hundred Jennifer Blakes targeting him, as long as they don’t go anywhere near his father. 

“Next time, don’t keep things from me,” his dad says, gruffly. He sounds a little emotional, too. 

“Okay, I promise.”

“Good. Now, you are grounded for so long, so fucking long.”

“Dad!” Stiles whines. Derek and Deaton enter the room just as it leaves his mouth, eyeing them both warily. Stiles scowls, blushing, feeling like a scolded teenager. He _is_ a scolded teenager. Whatever. 

“A month,” his dad says, clapping his shoulders. He looks at Deaton and Derek, nodding a greeting. “School, training, home. Doctor and therapy, that’s it.” Stiles scowls, but doesn’t fight him on it. He’s an adult. He’s _almost_ an adult. He can handle this maturely, by sulking and not saying anything. 

“How are you feeling?” Deaton asks Stiles, taking him from his dad with gentle hands. Derek comes along his other side and helps steady him. 

“Running low on gas,” Stiles says, truthfully. He’s exhausted. So exhausted he can feel it in his bones, muscles lethargic. There’s a heavy weight to every movement. He just wants to sleep. 

“Can you feel your magic?” Deaton asks. “The nemeton would have taken most of it. You’ll be lucky if you have even half the power you once did.”

Stiles wasn’t thinking about that when he decided to make the dump. Just knew that it was urgent that he did so. The thought is disappointing. He searches for it, almost hesitantly, unsure of what he’ll find. There’s a low thrum where his magic is, a flickering flame that isn’t dead. 

“Just needs some stoking,” Stiles says, wishes he had enough energy to make a masturbatory gesture just to see the carefully offended look on Deaton’s face. He doesn’t, though, his hands just stay limp. 

“How do you feel about a magically induced coma?” Deaton asks, casually, as he and Derek set Stiles on the table. Derek has to stay next to him so that Stiles is propped up. Not that Stiles is complaining. It takes effort not to nuzzle against Derek’s shoulder as he leans into his warmth. 

“Sounds like a blast,” Stiles says, grateful for the idea of sleep. Deaton hums in response and picks up his hand, looking at his palm again. He moves his fingers over the air in front of it, tweaking and prodding away. Stiles can barely feel the adjustments he makes to his magical energy this time. It’s a sharp contrast to how it felt last time. The way his magic slid and aligned. 

“A week,” he says.

“A _week_?” Stiles asks, trying to flail. The weight of his limbs is too much, so he just ends up jolting Derek around in surprise. His dad and Scott watch with amusement from the doorway. Deaton is already pulling out herbs and liquids from his magical disappearing cabinet to mix together. “I don’t want to wait a week. What about Scott’s alpha-ness? What about Peter? What about the witness testimonies?”

Stiles’ dad rolls his eyes from the doorway. 

“I think we can manage without for a week,” he says, staring at Stiles very seriously. “It will hold. There’s an APB out for Peter already. Wolf form and human form, we’re looking. You need this.”

“Scott is staying an alpha,” Derek says, voice pitched low. “I’ll help him, while you’re out.” Stiles draws back from leaning on him enough to look at his eyes. They’re sincere and amused and wow, he did not expect Derek to give up the mantle that readily. He never wanted it, but he _inherited it_. He must be all kinds of done with it, if he’s just letting Scott _have it_. 

“Well, shit,” Stiles says, as Deaton hands him the glass jar filled with the real-world equivalent of sleeping draught. What the actual fuck. “Please tell me this is dreamless.” Stiles doesn’t need to relive the last week over and over in fucked-up dream form for the next weak. Deaton raises his eyebrows, but nods. 

“Take that when you get home,” he says. “Make sure you’re comfortable.” That’s a joke. Deaton is hilarious. 

The jar is warm in his palm, swirling with magic. He looks at it uncertainly, and then at Scott and his dad who both have mildly encouraging looks on their faces. Right, he can totally do this. Out of commission for a week, no big deal. Stiles just nods and leans against Derek again, who takes the cue and helps Stiles down. Stiles leans against him all the way back to the Camaro. His dad says something about police work and reminds Stiles that he’s grounded, before taking the Sheriff’s car and heading down the road from where they came. 

Stiles can see the smoke from the fire drifting over the haze. It’s not out yet, the fire must be huge and unmanageable. It might have caught other buildings on fire, as well. Stiles gut clenches with guilt. That’s shitty. Hopefully, no one decides to sue him for damages. Stiles can claim self-defense, but that won’t make the damage costs go away. Not that he should be worrying about that right now. 

Stiles tracks the city lights as they drive towards his house. Street lights passing and street light passing and street lights passing. He thinks at some point Scott starts to talk to him, but he doesn’t really process the words. He’s trapped in a haze, way past needing to sleep. The car jostles him and he fades out, only coming to as Derek pulls him out of the back seat. Scott isn’t there. Stiles doesn’t know how he missed Scott being dropped off. 

“I’m tired,” he says, unnecessarily. Derek nods, clenches him tighter. It takes a minute to get in the door. He has to wait for Derek to find the hidden spare key. Stiles’ are nowhere to be found. When Derek half-drags him up the stairs and deposits him on his bed, he realizes he really doesn’t want Derek to go. 

“You should stay, for a little,” Stiles manages to get out, rolling the bottle in his hands. Derek doesn’t say anything, just stares before he takes the bottle away. Stiles is swaying, feeling drunk from how tired he is. 

Derek disappears and comes back with a warm, wet washcloth. Stiles stays very still while Derek drags it across his skin, getting the blood off. It stings as the material pulls at the dried blood that’s crusted to his skin. Derek’s hands work gently as he slathers cream on it and bandages it up. Stiles hadn’t even noticed the first aid kit. 

Derek is working off Stiles’ jeans when Stiles snaps back from the dreamy state he had sunk into. This is the part where they should talking, Stiles thinks, watching Derek’s big hands on the fabric of his jeans. He tries to rouse himself enough to say something, anything. 

“Jennifer said you loved me,” is what comes out. Smooth, Stilinski, just fucking out with it, right? Derek doesn’t startle, he just methodically shimmies Stiles’ jeans off and replaces them with his softest pair of pajama pants. He’s not wearing a shirt, again, so Derek just has to slide one over his binder. His hands are hot where they unclip his binder and draw it out from under his shirt. 

“She said that,” he says, asks? Stiles isn’t sure. The way he’s looking at Stiles makes something in Stiles’ chest ache. It’s soft, vulnerable. Stiles has no idea what to do with it. 

“I -- yeah.”

“You need sleep,” Derek says, instead of confirming or denying. Stiles wants to fight him on it, demand answers, but he thinks he knows, just by the way Derek is looking at him. Stiles swallows and looks away before he clenches his jaw and stares at Derek with resolve.

“Goodnight kiss?” he asks. He can feel his heart start to accelerate. Derek is just staring at him, almost surprised, but not quite. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he leans in and kisses Stiles. It’s a sweet slide of lips that makes Stiles melts even further. Derek’s hand cups the back of his head, fingers in his hair, deepening the kiss. It feels like a promise, the slow sweep of tongue. 

When they draw away, Derek’s eyes are intense on his face, searching. 

“I -- Me too,” Stiles says. He loves Derek too, he has for a long time. Since the pool, since he saw the first visage of doubt in Derek. It was a shock to Stiles’ system, learning that maybe Derek had more weaknesses than he let on. That was what drew him in, made him work to earn Derek’s trust. He wanted a way past the facade that Derek presented to everyone else, greedy for the unknown parts of him. The intrigue made him fall in love. 

Derek’s hand tenses on the back his head, but Derek doesn’t say anything, doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he presses a kiss to Stiles’ temple and then presses the glass into Stiles’ hand, looking at it, instead of Stiles. 

“You should get some sleep,” he says, with a soft smile. Stiles nods, the adrenaline of the kiss wearing off. His muscles feel like lead again, dense and weighty. The stopper comes off easily. Stiles tips the bottle in Derek’s direction, a sarcastic salute. Derek’s thick eyebrow tips up in return. 

The liquid tastes like mint and rosemary, absolutely disgusting. Stiles tries not to gag. It does the trick almost instantly, making Stiles’ bones melt. He sags down, barely feels Derek’s hands guiding him to lay down. He wants to say something more to Derek. The urge to declare all sorts of loyalties is strong, but his tongue is too heavy and the words slip away as everything goes black and comfortable.

 

 

The loft is doing a great impression of being completely abandoned when Stiles lets himself in, key sliding through the lock sticky and loud in the silence. The air seems stale with the absence of activity. An entire apartment holding its breath, waiting. Erica and Boyd are gone, Isaac is with Scott, Peter tucked his tail between his legs and disappeared. That leaves Derek with an empty three-room loft and no one to fill it.

Stiles lingers on the ground floor. Unsure, for the first time, if he’s welcome up the stairs. Without the excuse of Isaac’s room, it feels intrusive somehow. The room glows golden yellow with the setting sun, casting brightness into the corner shadows. It makes everything ethereal and hazy, casts a halo in Derek’s dark hair as he descends down the stairs. Stiles’ heart starts up at a brutal pace. He’d be less nervous if he wasn’t here to finish their conversation. 

All premeditated declarations of love evaporate as soon as he sees the large black duffel in Derek’s hand. Derek, who’s head jerks up, eyes widening when he realizes that he’s not alone. When his feet hit the last step he stalls, stops and doesn’t come any closer. Stiles shifts uncomfortably, disliking that Derek hadn’t even realized he was in the loft in the first place. Apparently, too caught up _in leaving_. 

Stiles’ eyes dart down to the bag, like if he keeps looking at it maybe it will disappear in between blinks. Derek’s eyes are like cut glass in the dying light. They’re trained intently on Stiles, his face a carefully blank facade. Stiles is learning to absolutely hate that face. Something rotten starts unfurling in his stomach, pulse galloping anxiously. 

“Vacation?” Stiles asks, fumbling the tone. He’s shooting for unaffected, but what comes out is grated, broken. 

“Cora’s alive,” is what Derek says in response. 

“Shit,” Stiles breathes, one long exhale. That changes some things about the conversation Stiles was planning on having today. Not everything, but some. “How did you find out?”

“Argent sent me photos,” Derek says. And, that’s it. Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. There has to be an easier way to teach Derek how to use qualifiers. 

“Who, what, when, where, why, how, Derek,” Stiles says, trying not to sound too sarcastic. From the flat look Derek gives him, he’s not really pulling it off.

“A group of hunters tracking Peter found a pack they didn’t recognize and sent photos to get identification. Argent ran the faces and Cora was one of them. It looks like her, she popped up in the FBI database.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Stiles exhales, barely managing to restrain his volume. “She’s been alive this entire time and she didn’t bother --”

“Stiles, don’t,” Derek says, voice a flat affect. Stiles’ mouth tightens in compliance, questions racing through his head. Derek doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t explain. It takes Stiles a minute to realize that Derek has the same questions, but with a whole lot more personal investment. 

“Sorry,” Stiles offers. Not sorry for himself, just sorry that Derek’s in this situation. That Cora is alive and has been alive and hasn’t bothered to contact her living family at all. Derek tips his shoulders in a shrug, an obvious deflection. He’s so bothered. Stiles doesn’t want to push it though, Derek can figure it out on his own and tell Stiles about it later. Of course, Stiles decides to bring up another conversation off the Worst Possible Conversations list. “Are we going to talk about what happened before I took that week long nap?”

“A lot happened,” Derek says, eyebrows going up, deliberately obtuse. Stiles feels the low thrum of anger starting to form in his belly. It’s not a good reaction, but he can’t stop the way he suddenly feels the rush of too much adrenaline. 

“You know what I mean, Derek,” Stiles snaps, willing him to admit it, anything. To multiple kisses and supposedly being in love with Stiles. Sure, actions are louder than words, but Stiles doesn’t know if the action of kissing him is to shut him up or a confirmation of feelings. Confirming things are what _words_ are for. 

“We should talk about this when I come back,” Derek says. Stiles’ insides are all tangled together, indignant with rage and hurt. 

“If,” Stiles corrects, shifting his weight. Derek frowns, eyebrows coming down heavily, guillotine blades. “ _If_ you come back. Seriously, Beacon Hills is quite possibly the worst place for you to be. Why would you come back?” 

All Stiles wants to hear is Derek say _him_ , that he’ll come back for Stiles. It’s selfish, but some validation for Stiles’ pining would be nice. That the past 9 or something months haven’t been wasted falling in love with someone who has no plans to do anything about it. Derek stares at Stiles for a long time before speaking. 

“I own the building,” he says in perfect monotone while Stiles’ heart breaks into pieces in his chest, sharp corners prodding the inside of his rib cage. His eyes burn, suddenly, as he lets out a hysterical noise, hands shooting towards the ceiling. He steps out of Derek’s gravity, getting away from the draw of him. 

“He owns the fucking building!”

“If you can _wait_ \--” Derek’s voice is all growl and frustration. Anger snaps hot and hard through Stiles’ veins. He wants to scream at Derek, shake him, make him _understand_. 

“I’ve _been_ waiting,” Stiles says. Whatever Derek was going to say just falls back, swallows down. His eyes are dark green and angry and fucking _guilty_. 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Derek says, very seriously. 

“It’s not a matter of asking,” Stiles says. It’s not like Stiles had any choice in the matter. Before he knew it, he was halfway to in-love and all the way to totally-fucked. Derek’s words, requests, acknowledgements couldn’t stop the matter any more than they could have encouraged it. Stiles had been on that one-way train since the day Derek stepped into Deaton’s clinic. “It’s just a matter of doing.”

“It was a stupid thing for you to do,” Derek says, cruelly. It simultaneously makes Stiles feel so small and so _fucking angry_. 

“Yes, like I can help my feelings,” Stiles snaps, fists curling. The light outside the window has sunk down to soft reds and baby pinks. 

“We should talk about this later,” Derek says again. He sounds resigned, not ready to put up a fight. Stiles feels like an idiot, being as mad as he is. He wants Derek to be pissed as well so that his anger will have some sort of justification. 

“Yeah, let’s talk about _this_ later, because this is what _I_ want to talk about,” Stiles snaps, rolling his eyes, plowing on when Derek’s face goes slack with confusion. “We talked about _my feelings_ when you were fucking Jennifer.”

“That wasn’t the same --”

“How? Because you thought I was with Lydia and you were _jealous_?” Stiles asks. The look on Derek’s face says it all. The quick skitter away of his eyes, the way he avoids Stiles’ gaze. “Why were you jealous?”

It’s like a scab he can’t stop picking. There’s no reason for him to keep pushing, but he can’t stop the words from coming and battering Derek down. He needs to know, he needs to hear Derek say it or he’s giving up completely. He will walk away from this.

Something curls up behind his sternum, a thrum of dark energy that fuels his anger. If Derek is going to reject him _yet again_ , he’ll just fucking be done with it. Considering everything that’s happened, Stiles can sink or swim right now. Derek can be the factor that tips him over. Stiles refuses to be dragged down by someone who doesn’t want to be with him. He’s not some princess pining away in a tower, waiting for his prince to rescue him. 

“You heard Jennifer,” Derek says, still edging the words like they’re toxic. “She took how I felt and projected it onto her. That happiness was real, but only because I felt it already, with you.”

“Why can’t you say it?” Stiles asks. His voice is embarrassingly thick with emotion, tears clouding up his visions, threatening to spill over. It’s making it impossible to look at Derek, because he’ll _know_. He probably already knows, it probably smells like an ocean of salt and angst coming from Stiles’ face. It’s dark now, sun dipping below the horizon. All Stiles can see is the dense silhouette of Derek in front of him, cutting through the faint glow of the box windows. He can’t see the expression on Derek’s face, but doubts that it’s good. 

There’s no answer, only silence. It must be because it’s dark, Stiles can feel tears slipping down his face traitorously. He scrubs at them harshly with his shirt sleeve, leaving a sting in their wake. Derek still doesn’t say anything. Stiles feels like screaming at him again, the pure vexation nudging against his vocal chords. He wants to lash out. 

Instead he shifts his weight, he’s just going to _leave_ , be done with it. If they can’t have this conversation like rational human beings they shouldn’t have it at all. Stiles doesn’t have the energy to parse through Derek’s half-answers. 

“You are such a --”

“What Stiles, what am I? Am I an asshole? The worst person to ever exist because I can’t say anything you want to hear right now?” Derek asks, voice low and angry. Stiles finally got to him. There’s a sick feeling of triumph working its way through Stiles. 

“No, are you --”

“Kidding? Not remotely. That’s selfish, Stiles,” Derek says, plainly. Stiles gets so angry, the edges of his vision dim. Magic explodes out of him in the form of lightning, crackling in the air. It lights up the space around them, settling brightly in the lights bulbs around the ground floor. Derek steps back, blinking away the light while Stiles stares at his face. He just needs to see if the look on Derek’s face matches his words. 

Derek’s mouth is a tight line, bags under his eyes. His skin is paler than usual, from exhaustion most likely. Stiles picks apart the details greedily, imprinting in his mind. This might be the last time he sees Derek, after all. 

“Yeah, selfish of me to want something, _anything_ to reassure me,” Stiles snaps. “You have no fucking idea how long I’ve felt like this. You want me to keep holding onto it while you figure your shit out, then I _need_ something from you.”

“You don’t think I know how you’ve felt?” Derek asks, scoffing. Stiles wants to punch him for that dismissive noise alone. “Do you know how hard it is to be around you all the time, constantly smelling like you’re in love? And, then, to find out it’s _me_.” 

Stiles’ stomach reels and takes a swan dive off the edge of a cliff. Derek’s looking at Stiles straight on, expression steely, jaw clenched. Stiles hates it all so much, the anger and the fighting. He desperately tries to think _why_ they’re even fighting. The black duffle, Derek’s inability to admit anything.

“So, you do know,” Stiles says, voice still slightly raised and angry. Even Derek’s face is a little pink from the argument, adrenaline, whatever makes people’s blood rush through their veins when they’re mad. “And you feel the same way, and _yet_. Nothing, _nada_.”

Nothing except for throw away kisses that Derek immediate rescinds afterwards, as if every press of lips is a mistake. Stiles’ for the taking, but never to keep. Not even counting the first time, but the second, the third, _especially_ the fourth. Derek kissing back, but ultimately pushing Stiles away, unwilling to talk about it unless he had a way to escape it: Stiles is too young, Stiles smells like Kate, Stiles doesn’t understand what’s between Derek and a psychopath druid, Stiles needs to drop into a magic coma real fast. Fuck _that_.

Stiles strides over to Derek quickly, lightning crackling in the space around him, discharging the extra energy. Derek drops the duffle bag, body tensing, but it’s not like Stiles is going to punch him or anything. Stiles strides up to Derek and grabs his face, fingers clenching a little too tightly as he drags Derek towards him, kissing him. 

Magic shocks the space around them as their lips meet. Stiles can physically feel Derek relent, the minute he decides to kiss back. Stiles has no idea what he’s doing, just that Derek is better with actions than words. Stiles puts everything he wants to say into the kiss. Every insecurity, every thought. The desire pours out of him as he slicks the way with his tongue, hands clenching in Derek’s shirt too tightly. 

Derek grabs his hips in a bruising grip. Stiles could tell himself he’s not desperate for this, but it would be a lie. It’s like he needs it, the way Derek’s fingers slip against the skin of his hip. The way they breathe into each other’s mouths, magic like static cling between them. Stiles has to restrain himself from digging his nails into Derek’s skin, anchoring them together. 

“Tell me,” Stiles demands, pulling apart enough so that there’s space for the words between their lips. His chest is aching. Everything whirls inside of him at odds, the anger and the relief. At least Derek is kissing back, at least he didn’t push Stiles away. 

“What do you want to hear?” Derek asks. It sounds like a genuine question, no sigh of resignation. His voice sounds as broken as Stiles’ heart feels.

“Tell me how you feel,” Stiles says, voice dropping low. Now, confronted with the fact that Derek might _actually say it_ , he feels wrong-footed, uncertain. 

“I feel dizzy from the emotional whiplash I’ve been through,” Derek says, voice flat, even though his hands tighten on Stiles’ hips. “I feel used and I feel like I need to move on. I feel excited that Cora is alive, nervous to find out why she never came back. I feel like Mexico is the perfect opportunity to figure out what’s going on in my head.”

Stiles’ stomach clenches up tight, anxiously. He steps away from Derek, eyes lowering to the floor before they’re back on the sharp planes of Derek’s face, searching. He wants to say so much, there’s so much to say, but Stiles doesn’t know where to start. It’s a question of _how_. How could Stiles ever describe the feeling he gets when he looks into Derek’s eyes?

In the end, he doesn’t figure it out. He just gives Derek a small smile, squeezing the back of his neck quickly before he steps back altogether. He doesn’t miss the small flutter of Derek’s eyes, the way he can’t meet Stiles’ gaze. 

“I’ll be here,” Stiles says. Derek nods once and picks up his duffel again. They stare at each other for a long time. Stiles is desperately trying to memorize the exact color of Derek’s eyes in the moment, the way his face is vulnerable and open. Just in case. 

Just in case, what? He’s going to Mexico to see his sister, but Stiles can’t help the panic that spirals through him. Just in case, something goes wrong. In case Derek doesn’t come back, in case something changes between them while he’s gone. In case Derek finds someone else, in case Stiles finds someone else. _Just in case_ , they’re not as fated as Stiles has always liked to assume.

Derek nods once and is gone, out the door of the loft. 

Stiles stares at the door blankly for a couple of minutes, the smooth metal of it. When one door closes, right? That’s the saying. It doesn’t seem like there’s any opportunity for change here. It feels like Derek is leaving Stiles while Stiles remains static. Waiting, forever waiting.

He calmly calls up the earth magic in him, feels the pack bond between him and Derek. It’s always been hotter than the others, more rooted, but Stiles assumed that was because Derek was the alpha. It remains unchanged, even now that Scott is the alpha. Stiles feels along it, following the vibration as Derek slowly gets further and further away. He’s glad no one is there to witness the way he just stands there for the better part of an hour, feeling how the bond stretches thinner and thinner as Derek gets further away. 

When Derek breaks the city line, the bond snaps back, ceasing to extend. It just hums in Stiles’ chest, reminding him that no matter where Derek is, he’s still part of the pack. Only then does Stiles let the magic leave the light bulbs, plunging the loft into darkness as something like brutal sadness curls up behind his breast bone. 

 

There’s the slam of Stiles’ window, sliding up, the knock of wood on wood. A large, glass bottle clinks and lands on his windowsill. Stiles watches a manicured hand appear, followed by Lydia Martin’s strawberry blonde head coming in _through the window_. She’s in a loose shirt and sweat pants and, unholy god, _sneakers_. Sneakers that she toes off inside the window, pointing her chin at the door that’s propped slightly opened. Stiles sends a gust of air at it to shut it and stares at her while Allison comes in behind her, biting her lip, dimples on display. Stiles waves his hands so that his room soundproofs, staring at them. 

“What are you --”

“I’m sick of your shit, Stilinski,” Lydia says, branishing the huge vodka bottle like a sword. “You’re currently training to be the McCall pack’s emissary, _a week_ away from top surgery, and what are you doing? You’re pouting, in your room, alone.”

“Technically, I’m still grounded,” Stiles reminds her, while she rolls her eyes and looking one hundred percent done. 

“Your dad pretty much doesn’t care, you have full permission to run out for pack business, which means basically _anything_ can be pack business. And yet, you’re here.” She waves her hand dismissively at his computer screen, where he’s researching changes in elemental magic. Stiles’ magic has been favoring lightning lately. Lightning is a combination of fire and air magic, which means his original element is still rooted in it, but it’s just weird, the propensity he’s having for it. Hopefully not the kind of weird that leads to death and dying, but it’s better to air on the side of caution. 

Lydia gives him a knowing look, fingers walking over the top of his laptop to shut it. 

“What did Deaton say?” she says, brushing imaginary dirt off the top of his Mac. 

“He just said it’s feedback from the nemeton, that it should pass,” Stiles replies. Deaton brewed him up a nasty concoction that tasted like pure ass to ‘purge’ the foreign magic from his body. It made Stiles feel floaty and out of it for the entire day. Stiles suspects it tripped something in him that started nightmares. They’re relatively tame, just anxiety dreams. The feeling of being chased, a building dread, but Stiles wakes up with his heart beating too fast in his chest. 

Lydia nods along, but she’s moving away from him, rooting around in his closet to find his hidden stash of shot glasses. 

“It doesn’t seem urgent, does it, Allison?” she asks, slamming the glasses on Stiles’ desk. Allison bites her bottom lip and shrugs. 

“It doesn’t really,” she says, flashing Stiles a smile. “What’s urgent is the need to get drunk.” Lydia nods, nudging a shot glass forward with her fingers. Stiles thinks getting drunk sounds like a great idea. Even though it’s just now getting into late afternoon. Stiles hears the door downstairs open and shut, the sound of the car pulling away. Stiles looks between the two girls surprised. 

“What great timing,” Lydia says, far from innocent. Allison laughs, twinkling with amusement. 

“You guys are menaces,” Stiles says, grabbing the shot glass. Lydia and Allison grab theirs, tipping them towards Stiles in a salute that he returns. They all sling back, the expensive vodka going down smooth, burning at the end. His mouth waters with the bite of alcohol.

Stiles rounds up some soda and juice and they sit in his room drinking until there’s a pleasant buzz of inebriation under their skins. Lydia’s feet arm slung over Stiles’ lap, upper body leaning against Stiles’ bed. Allison has stripped her shirt, too hot to just leave it, and she’s passionately waving around her arms, talking about Scott. 

“And he’s, and he’s wearing that _arrow_ and he keeps it under his shirt like I’m not supposed to know it’s there, but I do,” she slumps, dejectedly. Stiles pats her head, ‘cause he knows, he _knows_. Sometimes loving someone is confusing and hurts. “And Isaac and I had sex and, like, he’s really sweet, but he’s not Scott and I was trying to move on because it’s all complicated, but it’s _Scott_. I just can’t stop loving him.”

“You had sex with Isaac?” Stiles demands, indignant on Scott’s behalf. Sure, Isaac is a hottie with a body, but that’s no reason to have _sex with him_. Especially when she could be having sex with Scott. “You should have sex with Scott, not Isaac. Scott would sex you so hard, I know it.”

Allison bites her lip, eyes bright from the alcohol. 

“Please, have sex with Scott,” Lydia says, as monotone as she usually is. There’s a pink stain across her cheeks and she’s beautiful. Stiles wonders if he’ll ever stop wishing he was in love with her instead of Derek.

“I wonder if I’ll ever stop wishing I was in love with you instead of Derek,” Stiles says, leaning on his knees heavily. “If I was in love with you, I don’t think I’d feel this broken.” The look Lydia gives him is flat and judgemental. Stiles barely registers Allison’s confused sputtering. Sometimes he forgets that not everyone is aware of his soul crushing boner for Derek Hale. 

“Probably not,” Lydia sniffs. Stiles is drunk enough to think she looks offended that he’s _not_ in love with her. “But, you still wouldn’t be getting laid.”

“Ouch, Lyds.”

“Whatever, I’m not into your downstairs bits,” she says, dismissively. Allison laughs and shoves her, body somehow gracefully drunk. 

“Well, there was that one time,” she says, biting at her lower lip coyly. Lydia’s mouth drops open, startled, before laughter peels out of her, loud and bright. Stiles looks between them confused, wondering if they’re implying they had sex or something of the sort. That’s what it _sounds like_ , anyway. 

“We’re not going to go there,” Lydia says, sighing. Stiles really wants to go there, he really does, but the look on her face is challenging so he stays quiet. She waits a whole three seconds before poking at Stiles’ side. “You’ll live, right?”

“Yeah, it’s cool, just emotionally devastated _that’s all_ ,” Stiles says, shrugging. He says it with a joking tone, but he can’t help how true it feels. He’s taken to lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling. When it’s dark and he can’t sleep, all he can think about is Derek. There are nights that he can’t remember if Derek was angry or happy during any of their kisses. It’s getting harder and harder to believe that Derek wanted any of it, the way he refused to admit he loved Stiles. The way he just left town without a backwards glance. “‘I burn, I pine, I perish’.”

Lydia’s mouth tightens into a line, her eyes brightening with anger or something similar, Stiles can’t really tell at this point.

“You’re not the only one having issues, you know,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. “I finally confessed my love to Jackson and what did he do? Went to London, really. Allison fell in love with a guy who joined a _pack of werewolves_. Boyd never actually told Erica how he felt. Isaac still has no idea what he wants from Allison. Scott’s actually wearing a token of his unrequited love around his neck. Everyone in this group is unstable romantically.”

“Boyd was in love with Erica?” Stiles asks, voice catching in his throat roughly. He never saw it. Or, maybe he was just too caught up with his own issues. Stiles thinks of Boyd’s eyes blazing yellow when Erica went missing, the way he left with her so readily after Stiles found her in the warehouse. It makes so much sense and feels a thousand times worse than it did before. Lydia’s face is utterly devastating. 

“We shouldn’t talk about love,” Allison says, quickly, eyes dashing between their faces. Her eyebrows are drawn down in a frown, a severe pout on her lips. “It’s too much. We sacrifice our lives, but love, love is what really fucks us up.” She pours more vodka into their shot glasses, liquid slopping over the side messily. The carpet is probably drunk too, from how much they’ve split. Stiles grabs his glass and cheers with haste. Drunk is good, drunk is less aware. 

“Yeah, no, that’s the fucking problem,” Stiles spits, after his eyes stop watering. He takes a swig of coke to clear out the taste of vodka from his mouth. “I might die while he’s gone, lord fucking knows I’ve almost died enough already. I won’t ever get to tell him how much I want to suck his dick.”

“I bet he has a nice dick,” Lydia says, face musing. Her eyebrows shoot up. “Does Scott have a nice dick?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles and Allison say at the same time. Allison’s face is completely offended as she looks at Stiles. Stiles bursts out laughing, loud and sharp, making both the girls grin.

“It’s more than his dick though,” Allison says, eyes smiling. “It’s like the way he’s there, always there. Like, you know what I told him when we broke up? I don’t know, I don’t remember, but he basically said we were fated to be together.”

“You’re kidding!” Lydia crows, laughing and laughing. Lydia Martin isn’t the type of girl to believe in fate. 

“You are,” Stiles says, vehemently. It takes him a long time to pour more shots, but the girls stay quiet and watch intently. “You’re fucking fated. I’ve never seen him smile at anyone like that, not even his _mom_ and he’s got a lot of feelings about his mom, Allison.”

“Does he have a lot of feelings about me?” Allison asks, sounding unsure.

“He wears that arrow! He asked for it to _be_ an arrow, he thought of you as his spell breaker. You’re like _his anchor_. You’re important, so important. God, I wish someone looked at me the way he looks at you.”

“Derek looks at you like that,” Lydia says, with a shrug, downing another shot. Stiles watches the pale skin of her throat. Then, her words actually register.

“No, no he doesn’t. Derek doesn’t fucking look at me like I’m personally responsible for the full moon every month, like I’m some sort of miracle,” Stiles says, bitterly. He doesn’t bother with the shot glass, just grabs the nearly-empty bottle and takes a swig. If Derek looked at Stiles like that, Stiles would have _noticed_. Lydia doesn’t seem to agree, she kicks at him with pointy toes. 

“You’re too busy looking away when he looks at you,” she says, rolling her eyes. Allison nods along enthusiastically, head bobbing up and down. He puts his hand on her head to stop her. Seriously, she hasn’t even been around the past few months, she doesn’t get an opinion. 

“He left,” Stiles says, feeling like a broken record. It’s his justification for everything, but Stiles thinks it’s a damn good point. 

“He needs time,” Lydia says, kicking at him again. Sharper this time, as if he’s actually making her angry. He indignantly swats at her foot to make her stop. “You’re an asshole, Stilinski. There’s more ways to say ‘I love you’ than the actual words.”

“Like leaving?” Stiles asks, drunk and petulant and seriously, Lydia’s taking _Derek’s_ side. 

“Like accepting you as a boy without mentioning it to anyone, not misgendering you ever, never telling anyone about it. Letting you keep a key to his place, angrily monitoring your progress in the hospital even though it _made him sick_. Actually carrying your _flaming body out of a burning building_. Do I need to continue?”

Stiles stares at her, chest hollow. There’s nothing he can say to argue against her. She’s _right_. Derek did all those things. Stiles knows he did, Stiles was there. That doesn’t change the fact that he just decided to not say anything when they could have said so much. It doesn’t change the way that Stiles feels bitter and resentful about the entire thing. Stiles isn’t going to tell Lydia that, though, so he just squints at her and decides to change the subject. 

“Let’s, uh,” Stiles starts, hands shaking as the rest of the alcohol goes into the three shot glasses. “To Erica and Boyd.” Lydia’s mouth gets tight and flat, like she knows what he’s doing, but she picks up her glass and raises it with dainty fingers.

“To Erica and Boyd, even though they were totally on board with killing me.”

“To Erica and Boyd, we weren’t friends and I unjustly took out my family problems on them, but being dead fucking sucks.” Allison says, grabbing her glass as well, looking at it with resolve. 

“Dearly departed,” Stiles mutters, can’t think of the words to say. He misses Erica, specifically. It feels like the breath is knocked out of him when he thinks about how he’ll never get to hear her sharp wit or her scathing retorts. With Boyd, it’s different because Boyd never cared to interact with Stiles, but Stiles can still feel where he’s missing. It’s like a gaping wound where they should be. 

They all salute with their glasses, knocking back the shot.

 

 

The room is still dark when Stiles jerks out of sleep, heart ricocheting around his rib cage. He can’t remember what he was dreaming, just remembers that it felt suffocating. It’s been getting worse. The nightmares have been starting to bloom into scenes and scenarios that are so realistic, he wakes up thinking he’s still in them.

It started off small. Memories of Erica hanging by her wrists, getting her throat cut. Boyd with his chin tipped defiantly, Peter’s claws sinking into his dark skin. Dark blood, dark vomit. Then, it’s Stiles hauling Erica up by her wrists while she screams and struggles, Stiles cutting her throat with the knife. He can feel it sink into her flesh, sharp and quick and easy. Then, it’s Stiles killing Boyd and then, it’s Stiles killing Scott and Lydia and Derek and his dad, his fucking _dad_. Every time he jerks out of he feels sick, sweaty, useless. 

“Bad dream?” Derek asks, arm a heavy weight over Stiles. It grounds him, brings him back down. Derek frowns in sympathy, pressing his palm against Stiles’ heart carefully, right over the bandages. It feels like it’s beating back against his hand like a kick drum. “I don’t like this.”

“Me either,” Stiles admits, trying to take deep breaths. “I don’t think what Deaton gave me expelled the excess energy. It feels like it’s festering.” Derek frowns sharply, sitting up halfway so that he’s leaning on his elbow, a comfortable weight above Stiles. 

“What did Deaton give you?” he asks. Stiles shrugs, fingers moving to rub at the spot Derek’s hand just was. The bandages are itchy, the lacerations are itchy. Stiles can’t wait until his chest heals. 

“Something with herbs,” Stiles says. “I thought I told you. It was when you were in Mexico.” Derek shakes his head, still frowning. 

“I don’t like that,” he says. Stiles sighs, he knows. Derek has had a couple of conversations with Stiles about Deaton’s intent, his supposed neutrality. 

Deaton does things for the pack that he thinks will maintain the balance, not necessarily for the pack’s interest. Stiles argued that since they’re the good guys, everything that would maintain the balance would be in their interest. Derek reminded him that balance is good _and_ evil and Stiles shut him up with a kiss. 

Stiles does that now, presses his lips to the curve of Derek’s jaw, bites at the skin. Derek huffs out a grudging moan and captures Stiles’ mouth in a proper kiss, pressing him down into the mattress. Stiles hums appreciately, molding their bodies together so that he can grind against the weight of Derek’s thigh, running his nails over the skin on Derek’s back. 

“We should go back to sleep,” Stiles pants into Derek’s mouth. Derek hums at him, ignoring him. There’s lips and teeth on Stiles’ neck, his collarbone, the bump of his Adam’s apple. He moans when Derek sucks his earlobe into his mouth, wet and hot. “My dad’s asleep.” Derek laughs and pulls away. Stiles can feel the hard press of his dick against the outside of his thigh, the heat of it, it makes Stiles’ veins sing with anticipation.

“You’re right, there’s no way you can be quiet enough,” Derek says, licking Stiles’ neck more. Stiles huffs, indignant, sticking his hand in Derek’s pants and gripping his dick. Derek’s head drops, a groan escaping his lips. 

“Can _you_ be quiet enough?” Stiles challenges with a smirk, leaning up so that Derek’s forced to move back. Stiles keeps going until he’s the one pressing Derek down into the mattress, cocky grin on his lips. Derek’s face is slack with pleasure, mouth and eyes soft. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re beautiful.”

Stiles can’t help saying it, it’s true. The way the light from the street lights filters through the blinds and gives Stiles the barest hint of Derek’s sharp cheekbones, the muscles in his neck. It makes Stiles’ mouth water, having all of it out on display for him. He can barely remember the weeks in between Derek being in Mexico and coming home. All Stiles could do was train with the pack and desperately hope Derek would be ready to confront what was between them when he got back. 

_Thank fucking god_ that he was. So worth the wait, so fucking worth it. Stiles kisses Derek slow and lazy, mouths slipping together wetly. He wants to fuck Derek into oblivion, absolutely wreck him. Derek stills under him, though, just as Stiles has kissed a path down his torso, tongue against the waistband of his underwear. 

“I think your dad’s awake,” he says, lowly. Stiles can hear noises coming from the hall. He sighs, sitting up. He doesn’t miss the way Derek’s dick twitches up towards him as he draws back. Stiles smirks at Derek and gets up to lock the door. He usually doesn’t, his dad hasn’t come into his room unannounced since he developed tits, but better safe than sorry. 

He’s going to lock the door and he’s going to fucking wreck Derek Hale. 

There’s low scratching noises on the other side of the door when Stiles gets to it. It doesn’t sound like his dad, it sounds like a cat or an animal trying to get it. Stiles looks back at the bed, sees Derek stretched out, bare skin an invitation he doesn’t want to ignore. The scratches start again. 

“I’ll be right back,” Stiles says to Derek, smiling distractedly at the pout he gets in return. 

“Hurry back,” Derek says, voice low, with an honest to god wink. Stiles laughs as he pulls the door open. Yeah, he’s going to fucking wreck that. 

Stiles steps out into the hall. It feels cold and Stiles silently curses the fact that he doesn’t have socks on. It’s fall break, it’s not supposed to be cold. There’s no cat in the hall, which makes sense, they don’t have a cat. Stiles stops at the top of the stairs listening. 

The silence stretches on. Stiles can feel something in his chest tug him down and away. Stiles looks back at his room. There’s something there he needs to do. Someone he needs to talk to, maybe. He doesn’t remember what’s in his room. It must not be important, he thinks, as he makes his way down the stairs. 

It’s the middle of the night, the shadows in the corners dark and ominous. Stiles can feel his heart beat quicken in anticipation. Of what, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t remember why he’s awake. The noises start again. Instead of cat scratches on wood, it sounds like the buzz of flies or bees, a low drone. 

Stiles walks through his living room carefully. It’s too dark to really see, but he knows the layout of the furniture so he moves around it towards the front door. The buzzing gets louder. The tugging under his skin gets more insistent. The tumblers of the door click loudly as he unlocks it, cringing. He looks back up the stairs, he should really go back to sleep. 

There’s something at the back of his mind, reminding him to go back to the room. There’s something there that’s waiting for him. Was he researching something? No, there’s nothing to research. Stiles turns toward the door again. The wood unsticks as he pulls it open and stumbles through it.

He’s in a long, white room. It seems familiar in the way things in dreams often do. It stretches to the horizon each way, ceiling lit too-bright with square lights. The nemeton is on his right, fully grown. It’s thick branches twist, gnarled and old. There’s a darkness around it that evokes a feeling of awe. It’s a sort of fearful wonder. There’s that dark gritty feeling that makes Stiles think: Gods of Old, human sacrifice. The type of religion that calls for blood and pain and sex and chaos. It feels like nostalgia while he stares at it.

The other side of the room is empty, stretching to the horizon. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s looking for when he looks, eyes scanning every corner. There’s nothing there. 

When he looks back the nemeton is a stump and there’s a body lying supine on it. When Stiles approaches it’s Derek, lying on his back, forearm over his face. It looks like he’s sleeping. A warm feeling of content washes over Stiles as he watches Derek’s chest rise and fall rhythmically. His heart sputters in his chest, like an engine turning over. 

Stiles picks up Derek’s wrist -- he wants to tell him how much he loves him, he wants to kiss him, he wants to see Derek’s mouth curled in a smile. There’s so much on the tip of his tongue that he needs to say. He needs to confess it all, before something happens. And, something is going to happen. Stiles can feel the way the dread settles heavy in his veins. He needs to tell Derek, so they can be together. Before it’s too late.

When he pulls Derek’s arm away he stumbles back. Where Derek’s eyes are supposed to be, there’s just two black voids, staring at him.

“What is it, Stiles?” Derek asks, rising. Stiles can’t tear his eyes away from the swirling void in Derek’s eye sockets, so much like Lydia’s mouth. Stiles takes a step back, eyes casting around for something, anything. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. 

Derek takes a step towards him. He’s shirtless, a hole in his chest the size of Stiles’ fist. There’s blood spilling wetly down his torso. Terror curls around the base of Stiles’ spine. He backpedals so quickly he stumbles and falls. Derek is coming closer, red blood slipping down his skin, striking the floor. _Thud-thud thud-thud_. To the beat of Stiles’ heart, speeding up and echoing in the room. The blood lands in sharp staccatos, blossoming into roses that twine around Derek’s feet, thorns digging into his jeans, climbing his body.

Stiles scrambles backwards, slipping on the floor that’s suddenly too wet to gain traction from. When he looks down, there’s blood under his feet. Then, he’s standing, Derek’s heart held in his hands. It beats out a rhythm that pounds through him. 

_Thud-thud thud-thud_.

“Why did you --?” Derek’s choking, eyes suddenly there and blue, so fucking blue, peering at him. There’s blood leaking from his eyes, falling like tears, leaving red tracks down his face. A black raven pushes its way out of the hole in Derek’s chest, staring at Stiles accusingly. It squawks loudly. Stiles squeezes Derek’s heart reflexively, Derek jerks like a marionette. There’s blood on Stiles’ hands. He must have been the one that tore Derek’s heart out.

“I’m sorry --” he starts, but Derek’s already gone, replaced by Stiles. Stiles, who’s shirtless, but not shirtless like he’s used to seeing. There’s scars on his chest, cupping the underside of his pecs. Stiles post-top surgery. He’s smeared with blood, saturated at his hands and up his forearms, splattered on his torso in Pollock-esque patterns.

“I found you,” he says, stepping closer. Stiles drops Derek’s heart and runs. There’s a loud laugh behind him, the sound of heavy thuds as he’s pursued by himself. Stiles goes down as he’s tackled, rolled onto his back. He fights back with everything he has, but in the end hands tighten around his throat. He grins wickedly and leans in, eye glinting with excitement.

“It’s time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> infinite thanks to [Raleigh](http://tardisrightsactivist.tumblr.com/) for their words of encouragement & possibly liking this story more than I do.  
> I'm [queerlyalex](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.  
> Please continue to the sequel <3

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [Typical extras](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/tagged/typical-extra) on Tumblr, for some background on Stiles! and the [Burn This Way series](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/tagged/burn-this-way-series) tag for general shop talk about the fic series.


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